iEx  ICtbrta 


SEYMOUR    DURST 


~t'  ~Fort  nieMw    ^itn/ltrda-m.  oj>  Je  Menhatarus 


IVhen  you  leave,  please  leave  this  book 

Because  it  has  been  said 
"Sver'thing  comes  t'  him  who  waits 

Except  a  loaned  book." 


Avery  Architectural  and  Fine  Arts  Library 
Gift  of  Seymour  B.  Durst  Oud  York  Library 


TALES 


OF 


A  TEAVELLEE. 


BY 


WASHINGTON     IRVING, 


NEW   YORK 
INTERNATIONAL   BOOK   COMPANY 

3IO-318       SIXTH    AVENUE 


3c 


TALES  OF  A  TRAVELLER. 


CONTENTS 


PART   FIRST. 

STRANGE  STORIES  BY  A  NERVOUS  GENTLEMAN. 

PAGE 

A  Hunting  Dinner 6 

Adventure  of  my  Uncle  1° 

Adventure  of  my  Aunt  21 

Bold  Dragoon 25 

Adventure  of  the  Mysterious  Picture 33 

Adventure  of  the  Mysterious  Stranger.     40 

Story  of  the  Young  Italian 47 

PART    SECOND. 

BUCKTHORNE  AND  HIS   FRIENDS. 

Literary  Life  71 

Literary  Dinner 73 

Club  of  Queer  Fellows 76 

Poor  Devil  Author 80 

Buckthorne;  or,  the  Young  Man  of  Great  Expectations 95 

Grave  Reflections  of  a  Disappointed  Man 134 

Booby  Squire 138 

Strolling  Manager 143 

PART  THIRD. 

THE  ITALIAN.  BANDITTI. 

Inn  at  Terracina 154 

Adventure  of  the  Little  Antiquary 166 

Adventure  of  the  Fopkins  Family 170 

Painter's  Adventure  174 

Btoryof  the  Bandit  Chieftain 183 

Story  of  the  Young  Robber 192 


TALES  OF  A  TRAVELLER. 


PART  FIRST. 


STRANGE  STORIES  BY  A  NERVOUS  GENTLEMAN. 

I'll  tell  you  more;  there  was  a  fish  taken, 

A  monstrous  fish,  with  a  sword  by's  side,  a  long  sword, 

A  pike  in's  neck,  and  a  gun  in's  nose,  a  huge  gun, 

And  letters  of  mart  in's  mouth,  from  the  Duke.of  Florence. 

Cltanthes.    This  is  a  monstrous  lie. 

Tony.    I  do  confess  it. 
Do  you  think  I'd  tell  you  truths? 

Fletcher's  Wife  for  a  Month. 

[The  following  adventures  were  related  to  me  by  the  same 
nervous  gentleman  who  told  me  the  romantic  tale  of  The  Stout 
Gentleman,  published  in  Bracebridge  Hall. 

It  is  very  singular,  that  although  I  expressly  stated  that  story 
to  have  been  told  to  me,  and  described  the  very  person  who 
told  it,  still  it  has  been  received  as  an  adventure  that  happened 
to  myself.  Now,  I  protest  I  never  met  with  any  adventure  of 
the  kind.  I  should  not  have  grieved  at  this,  had  it  not  been 
intimated  by  the  author  of  Waverley,  in  an  introduction  to  his 
romance  of  Pevcril  of  the  Peak,  that  he  was  himself  the  Stout 
Gentleman  alluded  to.  I  have  ever  since  been  importuned  by 
letters  and  questions  from  gentlemen,  and  particularly  from 
ladies  without  number,  touching  what  I  had  seen  of  the  great 
unknown. 

Now,  all  this  is  extremely  tantalizing.  It  is  like  being  con- 
gratulated on  the  high  prize  when  one  has  drawn  a  blank ;  for 
I  have  just  as  great  a  desire  as  any  one  of  the  public  to  pene- 
trate the  mystery  of  that  very  singular  personage,  whose  voice 
fills  every  comer  of  the  world,  without  any  one  being  able  to 
tell  from  whence  it  comes.  He  who  keeps  up  such  a  wonder- 
ful and  whimsical  incognito:  whom  nobody  knows,  and  yet 
whom  every  body  thinks  he  can  swear  to 


6  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

My  friend,  the  nervous  gentleman,  also,  who  is  a  man  of 
very  shy,  retired  habits,  complains  that  he  has  been  exces- 
sively annoyed  in  consequence  of  its  getting  about  in  his  neigh- 
borhood that  he  is  the  fortunate  personage.  Insomuch,  that 
he  has  become  a  character  of  considerable  notoriety  in  two  or 
three  country  towns ;  and  has  been  repeatedly  teased  to  exhibit 
himself  at  blue-stocking  parties,  for  no  other  reason  than  that 
of  being  ' '  the  gentleman  who  has  had  a  glimpse  of  the  author 
of  Waverley.'1 

Indeed,  the  poor  man  has  grown  ten  times  as  nervous  as 
ever,  since  he  has  discovered,  on  such  good  authority,  who  the 
stout  gentleman  was;  and  will  never  forgive  himself  for  not 
having  made  a  more  resolute  effort  to  get  a  full  sight  of  him. 
He  has  anxiously  endeavored  to  call  up  a  recollection  of  what 
he  saw  of  that  portly  personage;  and  has  ever  since  kept  a 
curious  eye  on  all  gentlemen  of  more  than  ordinary  dimen- 
sions, whom  he  has  seen  getting  into  stage  coaches.  All  in 
vain !  The  features  he  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  seem  common 
to  the  whole  race  of  stout  gentlemen ;  and  the  great  unknown 
remains  as  great  an  unknown  as  ever.] 


A  HUNTING  DINNER. 

I  was  once  at  a  hunting  dinner,  given  by  a  worthy  fox- 
hunting old  Baronet,  who  kept  Bachelor's  Hall  in  jovial  style, 
in  an  ancient  rook-haunted  family  mansion,  in  one  of  the  mid- 
dle counties.  He  had  been  a  devoted  admirer  of  the  fair  sex  in 
his  young  days ;  but  having  travelled  much,  studied  the  sex  in 
various  countries  with  distinguished  success,  and  returned 
home  profoundly  instructed,  as  he  supposed,  in  the  ways  of 
woman,  and  a  perfect  master  of  the  art  of  pleasing,  he  had  the 
mortification  of  being  jilted  by  a  little  boarding  school  girl, 
who  was  scarcely  versed  in  the  accidence  of  love. 

The  Baronet  was  completely  overcome  by  such  an  incredible 
defeat;  retired  from  the  world  in  disgust,  put  himself  under 
the  government  of  his  housekeeper,  and  took  to  fox-hunting 
like  a  perfect  Jehu.  Whatever  poets  may  say  to  the  contrary, 
a  man  will  grow  out  of  love  as  he  grows  old ;  and  a  pack  of  fox 
hounds  may  chase  'out  of  his  heart  even  the  memory  of  a 


A  HUNTING  DINNER.  7 

boarding-school  goddess.  The  Baronet  was  when  I  saw  him  as 
merry  and  mellow  an  old  bachelor  as  ever  followed  a  hound ; 
and  the  love  he  had  once  felt  for  one  woman  had  spread  itself 
over  the  whole  sex;  so  that  there  was  not  a  pretty  face  in  the 
whole  Country  round,  but  came  in  for  a  share. 

The  dinner  was  prolonged  till  a  late  hour ;  for  our  host  hav- 
ing no  ladies  in  his  household  to  summon  us  to  the  drawing- 
room,  the  bottle  maintained  its  true  bachelor  sway,  unrivalled 
by  its  potent  enemy  the  tea-kettle.  The  old  hall  in  which  we 
dined  echoed  to  bursts  of  robustious  fox-hunting  merriment, 
that  made  the  ancient  antlers  shake  on  the  walls.  By  degrees, 
however,  the  wine  and  wassail  of  mine  host  began  to  operate 
upon  bodies  already  a  little  jaded  by  the  chase.  The  choice 
spirits  that  flashed  up  at  the  beginning  of  the  dinner,  sparkled 
for  a  time,  then  gradually  went  out  one  after  another,  or  only 
emitted  now  and  then  a  faint  gleam  from  the  socket.  Some  of 
the  briskest  talkers,  who  had  given  tongue  so  bravely  at  the 
first  burst,  fell  fast  asleep ;  and  none  kept  on  their  way  but 
certain  of  those  long-winded  prosers,  who,  like  short-legged 
hounds,  worry  on  unnoticed  at  the  bottom  of  conversation, 
but  are  sure  to  be  in  at  the  death.  Even  these  at  length  sub- 
sided into  silence ;  and  scarcely  any  thing  was  heard  but  the 
nasal  communications  of  two  or  three  veteran  masticators, 
who,  having  been  silent  while  awake,  were  indemnifying  the 
company  in  their  sleep. 

At  length  the  announcement  of  tea  and  coffee  in  the  cedar 
parlor  roused  all  hands  from  this  temporary  torpor.  Every 
one  awoke  marvellously  renovated,  and  while  sipping  the  re- 
freshing beverage  out  of  the  Baronet's  old-fashioned  hereditary 
china,  began  to  think  of  departing  for  their  several  homes. 
But  here  a  sudden  difficulty  arose.  While  we  had  been  pro- 
longing our  repast,  a  heavy  winter  storm  had  set  in,  with 
snow,  rain,  and  sleet,  driven  by  sitch  bitter  blasts  of  wind, 
that  they  threatened  to  penetrate  to  the  very  bone. 

"It's  all  in  vain,"  said  our  hospitable  host,  "  to  think  of 
putting  one's  head  out  of  doors  in  such  weather.  So,  gentle- 
men, I  hold  you  my  guests  for  this  night  at  least,  and  will 
have  your  quarters  prepared  accordingly." 

The  unruly  weather,  which  became  more  and  more  tempes- 
tuous, rendered  the  hospitable  suggestion  unanswerable.  The 
only  question  was.  whether  such  an  unexpected  accession  of 
company,  to  an  already  crowded  house,  would  not  put  the 
housekeeper  to  her  trumps  to  accommodate  them. 


8  TALES   OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

"Pshaw,"  cried  mine  host,  "did  you  ever  know  of  a  Bach- 
elor's Hall  that  was  not  elastic,  and  able  to  accommodate  twice 
as  many  as  it  could  hold?"  So  out  of  a  good-humored  pique 
the  housekeeper  was  summoned  to  consultation  before  us  all. 
The  old  lady  appeared,  in  her  gala  suit  of  faded  brocade,  which 
rustled  with  flurry  and  agitation,  for  in  spite  of  mine  host's 
1  iravado,  she  was  a  little  perplexed.  But  in  a  bachelor's  house, 
\\ -ith  bachelor  guests,  these  matters  are  readily  managed. 
There  is  no  lady  of  the  house  to  stand  upon  squeamish  points 
about  lodging  guests  in  odd  holes  and  corners,  and  exposing 
the  shabby  parts  of  the  establishment.  A  bachelor's  house- 
keeper is  used  to  shifts  and  emergencies.  After  much  worry- 
ing to  and  fro,  and  divers  consultations  about  the  red  room, 
and  the  blue  room,  and  the  chintz  room,  and  the  damask  ro<  >i.\ 
and  the  little  room  with  the  bow  window,  the  matter  was 
finally  arranged. 

When  all  this  was  done,  we  were  once  more  summoned  to 
the  standing  rural  amusement  of  eating.  The  time  that  had 
been  consumed  in  dozing  after  dinner,  and  in  the  refreshment 
and  consultation  of  the  cedar  parlor,  was  sufficient,  in  the 
opinion  of  the  rosy-faced  butler,  to  engender  a  reasonable 
appetite  for  supper.  A  slight  repast  had  therefore  been  tricked 
up  from  the  residue  of  dinner,  consisting  of  cold  sirloin  of  beef ; 
hashed  venison:  a  devilled  leg  of  a  turkey  or  so,  and  a  few 
other  of  those  light  articles  taken  by  country  gentlemen  to 
ensure  sound  sleep  and  heavy  snoring. 

The  nap  after  dinner  had  brightened  up  every  one's  wit ;  and 
a  great  deal  of  excellent  humor  was  expended  upon  the  per- 
plexities of  mine  host  and  his  housekeeper,  by  certain  married 
gentlemen  of  the  company,  who  considered  themselves*  privil- 
eged in  joking  with  a  bachelor's  establishment.  From  this  the 
banter  turned  as  to  what  quarters  each  would  find,  on  being 
thus  suddenly  billeted  in  so  antiquated  a  mansion. 

"By  my  soul,"  said  an  Irish  captain  of  dragoons,  one  of  the 
most  merry  and  boisterous  of  the  party — "by  my  soul,  but  I 
should  not  be  surprised  if  some  of  those  good-looking  gentle- 
folks that  hang  along  the  walls,  should  walk  about  the  rooms 
of  this  stormy  night;  or  if  I  should  find  the  ghost  of  one  of 
these  Jong-waisted  ladies  turning  into  my  bed  in  mistake  for 
her  grave  in  the  church-yard." 

"  Do  you  believe  in  ghosts,  then?"  said  a  thin,  hatchet-faced 
gentleman,  with  projecting  eyes  like  a  lobster. 

I  had  remarked  this  last  personage  throughout  dinner-time 


TALES  OF  A    TRAVELLER  9 

for  one  of  those  incessant  questioners,  who  seem  to  have  a 
craving,  unhealthy  appetite  in  conversation.  He  never  seemed 
satisfied  with  the  wVe  of  a  story;  never  laughed  when  others 
laughed ;  but  always  i.ut  the  joke  to  the  question.  He  could 
never  enjoy  the  kernel  of  the  nut,  btit  pestered  himself  to  get 
more  out  of  the  shell. 

"Do  you  believe  in  ghosts,  then?"  said  the  inquisitive  gentle 
nian. 

"Faith,  but  I  do,"  replied  the  jovial  Irishman;  "I  was 
brought  up  in  the  fear  and  belief  of  them ;  we  had  a  Benshee 
in  our  own  family,  honey." 

"  A  Benshee— and  what's  that?"  cried  the  questioner. 

"  Why  an  old  lady  ghost  that  tends  upon  your  real  Milesian 
families,  and  wails  at  their  window  to  let  them  know  when 
some  of  them  are  to  die." 

"  A  mighty  pleasant  piece  of  information,"  cried  an  elderly 
gentleman,  with  a  knowing  look  and  a  flexible  nose,  to  which 
he  could  give  a  whimsical  twist  when  he  wished  to  be  waggish. 

"By  my  soul,  but  I'd  have  you  know  it's  a  piece  of  distinc- 
tion to  be  waited  upon  by  a  Benshee.  It's  a  proof  that  one  has 
pure  blood  in  one's  veins.  But,  egad,  now  we're  talking  of 
ghosts,  there  never  was  a  house  or  a  night  better  fitted  than 
the  present  for  a  ghost  adventure.  Faith,  Sir  John,  haven't 
you  such  a  thing  as  a  haunted  chamber  to  put  a  guest  in?" 

' '  Perhaps, "  said  the  Baronet,  smiling,  ' '  I  might  accommodate 
you  even  on  that  point." 

"Oh,  I  should  like  it  of  all  things,  my  jewel.  Some  dark 
oaken  room,  with  ugly  wo-begone  portraits  that  stare  dismally 
at  one,  and  about  which  the  housekeeper  has  a  power  of  de- 
lightful stories  of  love  and  murder.  And  then  a  dim  lamp,  a 
table  with  a  rusty  sword  across  it,  and  a  spectre  all  in  white  to 
draw  aside  one's  curtains  at  midnight—" 

''In  truth,"  said  an  old  gentleman  at  one  end  of  the  table, 
"you  put  me  in  mind  of  an  anecdote—" 

"Oh,  a  ghost  story!  a  ghost  story!"  was  vociferated  round 
the  board,  every  one  edging  his  chair  a  little  nearer. 

The  attention  of  the  whole  company  was  now  turned  upon 
the  speaker.  He  was  an  old  gentleman,  one  side  of  whose  face 
was  no  match  for  the  other.  The  eyelid  drooped  and  hung 
down  like  an  unhinged  window  shutter.  Indeed,  the  whole 
side  of  his  head  was  dilapidated,  and  seemed  like  the  wing  of  a 
house  shut  up  and  haunted.  I'll  warrant  that  side  was 
stuffed  w  rios. 


10  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

There  was  a  universal  demand  for  the  tale. 

"Nay,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  "it's  a  mere  anecdote — and  a 
very  commonplace  one;  but  such  as  it  is  you  shall  have  it.  It 
is  a  story  that  I  once  heard  my  uncle  tell  when  I  was  a  boy. 
But  whether  as  having  happened  to  himself  or  to  another,  I 
cannot  recollect.  But  no  matter,  it's  very  likely  it  happened  to 
himself,  for  he  was  a  man  very  apt  to  meet  with  strange 
adventures.  I  have  heard  him  tell  of  others  much  more  singu 
lar.     At  any  rate,  we  will  suppose  it  happened  to  himself." 

"What  kind  of  man  was  your  uncle?"  said  the  questioning 
gentleman. 

"Why,  he  was  rather  a  dry,  shrewd  kind  of  body;  a  great 
traveller,  and  fond  of  telling  his  adventures." 

"Pray,  how  old  might  he  have  been  when  this  happened?" 

"When  what  happened?"  cried  the  gentleman  with  the  flexi- 
ble nose,  impatiently — "  Egad,  you  have  not  given  any  thing  a 
chance  to  happen — come,  never  mind  our  uncle's  age;  let  us 
have  his  adventures." 

The  inquisitive  gentleman  being  for  the  moment  silenced,  the 
old  gentleman  with  the  haunted  head  proceeded. 


THE  ADVENTURE  OF  MY  UNCLE. 

Many  years  since,  a  long  time  before  the  French  revolution, 
my  uncle  had  passed  several  anonths  at  Paris.  The  English 
and  French  were  on  better  terms,  in  those  days,  than  at  pres- 
ent, and  mingled  cordially  together  in  society.  The  English 
went  abroad  to  spend  money  then,  and  the  French  were  always 
ready  to  help  them :  they  go  abroad  to  save  money  at  present, 
and  that  they  can  do  without  French  assistance.  Perhaps  the 
travelling  English  were  fewer  and  choicer  then,  than  at  present, 
when  the  whole  nation  has  broke  loose,  and  inundated  the  con- 
tinent. At  any  rate,  they  circulated  more  readily  and  currently 
in  foreign  society,  and  my  uncle,  during  his  residence  in  Paris, 
made  many  very  intimate  acquaintances  among  the  French 
noblesse. 

Some  time  afterwards,  he  was  making  a  journey  in  the 
winter-time,  in  that  part  of  Normandy  called  the  Pays  de  Caux, 
when,  as  evening  was  closing  in,  he  perceived  the  turrets  of  an 
ancient  chateau  rising  out  of  the  trees  of  its  walled  park,  each 


THE  ADVENTURE  OP  MY  UNCLE.  \\ 

turret  with  its  high  conical  roof  of  gray  slate,  like  a  candle 
with  an  extinguisher  on  it. 

11  To  whom  does  that  chateau  belong,  friend?"  cried  my  uncle 
to  a  meager,  but  fiery  postillion,  who,  with  tremendous  jack 
boots  and  cocked  hat,  was  floundering  on  before  him. 

"To  Monseigneur  the  Marquis  de  ,"  said  the  postillion, 

touching  his  hat,  partly  out  of  respect  to  my  uncle,  and  partly 
out  of  reverence  to  the  noble  name  pronounced.  My  uncle 
recollected  the  Marquis  for  a  particular  friend  in  Paris,  who 
had  often  expressed  a  wish  to  see  him  at  his  paternal  chateau. 
My  uncle  was  an  old  traveller,  one  that  knew  how  to  turn 
things  to  accoimt.  He  revolved  for  a  few  moments  in  his  mind 
how  agreeable  it  would  be  to  his  friend  the  Marquis  to  be  sur* 
prised  in  this  sociable  way  by  a  pop  visit ;  and  how  much  more 
agreeable  to  himself  to  get  into  snug  quarters  in  a  chateau,  and 
have  a  relish  of  the  Marquis's  well-known  kitchen,  and  a  smack 
of  his  superior  champagne  and  burgundy ;  rather  than  take  up 
with  the  miserable  lodgment,  and  miserable  fare  of  a  country 
inn.  In  a  few  minutes,  therefore,  the  meager  postillion  was 
cracking  his  whip  like  a  very  devil,  or  like  a  true  Frenchman, 
up  the  long  straight  avenue  that  led  to  the  chateau. 

You  have  no  doubt  all  seen  French  chateaus,  as  every  body 
travels  in  France  nowadays.  This  was  one  of  the  oldest ;  stand- 
ing naked  and  alone,  in  the  midst  of  a  desert  of  gravel  walks  and 
cold  stone  terraces;  with  a  cold-looking  formal  garden,  cut 
into  angles  and  rhomboids;  and  a  cold  leafless  park,  divided 
geometrically  by  straight  alleys;  and  two  or  three  noseless, 
cold-looking  statues  without  any  clothing;  and  fountains 
spouting  cold  water  enough  to  make  one's  teeth  chatter.  At 
least,  such  was  the  feeling  they  imparted  on  the  wintry  day 
of  my  uncle's  visit ;  though,  in  hot  summer  weather,  I'll  warrant 
there  was  glare  enough  to  scorch  one's  eyes  out. 

The  smacking  of  the  postillion's  whip,  which  grew  more  and 
more  intense  the  nearer  they  approached,  frightened  a  flight 
of  pigeons  out  of  the  dove-cote,  and  rooks  out  of  the.roof s ;  and 
finally  a  crew  of  servants  out  of  the  chateau,  with  the  Marqui* 
at  their  head.  He  was  enchanted  to  see  my  uncle;  for  his 
chateau,  like  the  house  of  our  worthy  host,  had  not  many  more 
guests  at  the  time  than  it  could  accommodate.  So  he  kissed 
my  uncle  on  each  cheek,  after  the  French  fashion,  and  ushered 
him  into  the  castle. 

The  Marquis  did  the  honors  of  his  house  with  the  urbanity  of 
his  country.     In  fact,  he  was  proud  of  his  old  family  chateau; 


12  TALES   OF  A    TRAVELLEK. 

for  part  of  it  was  extremely  old.  There  was  a  tower  and  chapel 
that  had  been  built  almost  before  the  memory  of  man;  but  the 
rest  was  more  modern ;  the  castle  having  been  nearly  demolished 
during  the  wars  of  the  League.  The  Marquis  dwelt  upon  this 
event  with  great  satisfaction,  and  seemed  really  to  entertain  a 
grateful  feeling  towards  Henry  IV.,  for  having  thought  his 
paternal  mansion  worth  battering  down.  He  had  many  stories 
to  tell  of  the  prowess  of  his  ancestors,  and  several  skull-caps, 
helmets,  and  cross-bows  to  show ;  and  divers  huge  boots  and 
buff  jerkins,  that  had  been  worn  by  the  Leaguers.  Above  all, 
there  was  a  two-handled  sword,  which  he  could  hardly  wield ; 
but  which  he  displayed  as  a  proof  that  there  had  been  giants  in 
his  family. 

In  truth,  he  was  but  a  small  descendant  from  such  great 
warriors.  When  you  looked  at  their  bluff  visages  and  brawny 
limbs,  as  depicted  in  their  portraits,  and  then  at  the  little 
Marquis,  with  his  spindle  shanks ;  his  sallow  lanthern  visage, 
flanked  with  a  pair  of  powdered  cai'-locks,  or  ailes  de  pigeon, 
that  seemed  ready  to  fly  away  with  it ;  you  would  hardly  believe 
him  to  be  of  the  same  race.  But  when  you  looked  at  the  eyes 
that  sparkled  out  like  a  beetle's  from  each  side  of  his  hooked 
nose;  you  saw  at  once  that  he  inherited  all  the  fiery  spirit  of  his 
forefathers.  In  fact,  a  Frenchman's  spirit  never  exhales,  how- 
ever his  body  may  dwindle.  It  rather  rarefies,  and  grows  more 
inflammable,  as  the  earthly  particles  diminish ;  and  I  have  seen 
valor  enough  in  a  little  fiery-hearted  French  dwarf,  to  have 
furnished  out  a  tolerable  giant. 

When  once  the  Marquis,  as  he  was  wont,  put  on  one  of  the 
old  helmets  that  were  stuck  up  in  his  hall ;  though  his  head  no 
more  filled  it  than  a  dry  pea  its  pease  cod ;  yet  his  eyes  sparkled 
from  the  bottom  of  the  iron  cavern  with  the  brilliancy  of  car 
buncles.  and  when  he  poised  the  ponderous  two-handled  sword 
of  his  ancestors,  you  would  have  thought  you  saw  the  doughty 
little  David  wielding  the  sword  of  Goliah,  which  was  unto  him 
like  a  weaver's  beam. 

However,  gentlemen,  I  am  dwelling  too  long  on  this  descrip- 
tion of  the  Marquis  and  Ins  chateau ;  but  you  must  excuse  me ; 
he  was  an  old  friend  of  my  uncle's,  and  whenever  my  uncle 
told  the  story,  he  was  always  fond  of  talking  a  great  deal  about 
Ins  host. — Poor  little  Marquis!  He  was  one  of  that  handful  of 
gallant  courtiers,  who  made  such  a  devoted,  but  hopeless  stand 
in  the  cause  of  their  sovereign,  in  the  chateau  of  the  Tuilleries, 
against  the  irruption  of  the  mob,  on  the  sad  tenth  of  August. 


THE  ADVENTURE  OF  MY  UNCLE.  13 

He  displayed  the  valor  of  a  preux  French  chevalier  to  the  last ; 
flourished  feebly  his  little  court  sword  with  a  sa-sa!  in  face  of 
a  whole  legion  of  sans-culottes ;  but  was  pinned  to  the  wall  like  a 
butterfly,  by  the  pike  of  a  poissarde,  and  his  heroic  soul  was 
borne  up  to  heaven  on  his  ailes  de  pigeon. 

But  all  this  has  nothing  to  do  with  my  story ;  to  the  point 
then  -.—When  the  hour  arrived  for  retiring  for  the  night,  my 
uncle  was  shown  to  his  room,  in  a  venerable  old  tower.  It  was 
the  oldest  part  of  the  chateau,  and  had  in  ancient  times  been 
the  Donjon  or  stronghold ;  of  course  the  chamber  was  none  of 
the  best.  The  Marquis  had  put  him  there,  however,  because  he 
knew  him  to  be  a  traveller  of  taste,  and  fond  of  antiquities; 
and  also  because  the  better  apartments  were  already  occupied. 
Indeed,  he  perfectly  reconciled  my  uncle  to  his  quarters  by 
mentioning  the  great  personages  who  had  once  inhabited  them, 
all  of  whom  were  in  some  way  or  other  connected  with  the 
family.  If  you  would  take  his  word  for  it,  John  Baliol,  or,  as 
he  called  him,  Jean  de  Bailleul,  had  died  of  chagrin  in  this 
very  chamber  on  hearing  of  the  success  of  his  rival,  Robert  the 
Bruce,  at  the  battle  of  Bannockburn ;  and  when  he  added  that 
the  Duke  de  Guise  had  slept  in  it  during  the  wars  of  the  League, 
my  uncle  was  fain  to  felicitate  himself  upon  being  honored 
with  such  distinguished  quarters. 

The  night  was  shrewd  and  windy,  and  the  chamber  none  of 
the  warmest.  An  old,  long-faced,  long-bodied  servant  in  quaint 
livery,  who  attended  upon  my  uncle,  threw  down  an  armful  of 
wood  beside  the  fire-place,  gave  a  queer  look  about  the  room, 
and  then  wished  him  bon  repos,  with  a  grimace  and  a  shrug 
that  would  have  been  suspicious  from  any  other  than  an  old 
French  servant.  The  chamber  had  indeed  a  wild,  crazy  look, 
enough  to  strike  any  one  who  had  read  romances  with  appre- 
hension and  foreboding.  The  windows  were  high  and  narrow, 
and  had  once  been  loop-holes,  but  had  been  rudely  enlarged,  as 
well  as  the  extreme  thickness  of  the  walls  would  permit ;  and 
the  ill-fitted  casements  rattled  to  every  breeze.  You  would 
have  thought,  on  a  windy  night,  some  of  the  old  Leaguers  were 
tramping  and  clanking  about  the  apartment  in  their  huge  boots 
and  rattling  spurs.  A  door  which  stood  ajar,  and  like  a  true 
French  door  would  stand  ajar,  in  spite  of  every  reason  and 
effort  to  the  contrary,  opened  upon  a  long,  dark  corridor,  that 
led  the  Lord  knows  whither,  and  seemed  just  made  for  ghosts 
to  air  themselves  in,  when  they  turned  out  of  their  graves  at 
midnight.     The  wind  would  spring  up  into  a  hoarse  murmur 


14  TALES  OF  A   Til  A  VKlLKll 

through  tliis  passage,  and  creak  the  door  to  and  fro,  as  if  some' 
dubious  ghost  were  balancing  in  its  mind  whether  to  come  in  or 
not.  In  a  word,  it  was  precisely  the  kind  of  comfortless  apart- 
ment that  a  ghost,  if  ghost  there  were  in.  the  chateau,  would 
single  out  for  its  favorite  lounge. 

My  uncle,  however,  though  a  man  accustomed  to  meet  with 
strange  adventures,  apprehended  none  at  the  time.  He  made 
several  attempts  to  shut  the  door,  but  in  vain.  Not  that  lie 
apprehended  any  thing,  for  lie  was  too  old  a  traveller  to  be 
daunted  by  a  wild-looking  apartment;  but  the  night,  as  I  have 
said,  was  cold  and  gusty,  something  like  the  present,  and  the 
wind  howled  about  the  old  turret,  pretty  much  as  it  does  round 
this  old  mansion  at  this  moment ;  and  the  breeze  from  the  long 
dark  corridor  came  in  as  damp  and  chilly  as  if  from  a  dungeon. 
My  uncle,  therefore,  since  he  could  not  close  the  door,  threw  a 
quantity  of  wood  on  the  fire,  which  soon  sent  up  a  flame  in  the 
great  wide-mouthed  chimney  that  illumined  the  whole  chamber, 
and  made  the  shadow  of  the  tongs  on  the  opposite  wall,  look 
like  a  long-legged  giant.  My  uncle  now  clambered  on  top  of 
the  half  score  of  mattresses  which  form  a  French  bed,  and 
which  stood  in  a  deep  recess ;  then  tucking  himself  snugly  in, 
and  burying  himself  up  to  the  chin  in  the  bed-clothes,  he  lay 
looking  at  the  fire,  and  listening  to  the  wind,  and  chuckling  to 
think  how  knowingly  he  had  come  over  his  friend  the  Marquis 
for  a  night's  lodgings :  and  so  he  fell  asleep. 

He  had  not  taken  above  half  of  his  first  nap,  when  he  was  awak- 
ened by  the  clock  of  the  chateau n  in  the  turret  over  his  chamber, 
which  struck  midnight.  It  was  just  such  an  old  clock  as  ghosts 
are  fond  of.  It  had  a  deep,  dismal  tone,  and  struck  so  slowly 
and  tediously  that  my  uncle  thought  it  would  never  have  done. 
He  counted  and  counted  till  he  was  confident  he  counted  thir 
teen,  and  then  it  stopped. 

The  fire  had  burnt  low,  and  the  blaze  of  the  last  faggot  was 
almost  expiring,  burning  in  small  blue  flames,  which  now  and 
then  lengthened  up  into  little  white  gleams.  My  uncle  lay  with 
his  eyes  half  closed,  and  his  nightcap  drawn  almost  down  to  his 
nose.  His  fancy  was  already  wandering,  and  began  to  mingle 
up  the  present  scene  with  the  crater  of  Vesuvius,  the  French 
opera,  the  Coliseum  at  Rome,  Dolly's  chop-house  in  London, 
and  all  the  farrago  of  noted  places  with  which  the  brain  of  a 
traveller  is  crammed— in  a  word,  he  was  just  falling  aslc 

Suddenly  he  was  aroused  by  the  sound  of  foot-steps  that 
appeared  to  be  slowly  pacing  along  the  corridor.     My  uncle,  as 


THE  ADVENTURE  or    MY    UNCLE.  15 

I  have  oft  on  heard  him  say  himself,  was  a  man  not  easily 

frightened ;  so  he  lay  quiet,  supposing  that  this  might  be  some 
other  guest ;  or  some  servant  on  his  way  to  bed.  The  footsteps, 
however,  approached  the  door ;  the  door  gently  opened ;  wheth- 
er of  its  own  accord,  or  whether  pushed  open,  my  uncle  could 
not  distinguish: — a  figure  all  in  white  glided  in.  It  was  a 
female,  tall  and  stately  in  person,  and  of  a  most  commanding 
air.  Her  dress  was  of  an  ancient  fashion,  ample  in  volume  and 
sweeping  the  floor.  She  walked  up  to  the  fire-place  without 
regarding  my  uncle ;  who  raised  his  nightcap  with  one  hand, 
and  stared  earnestly  at  her.  She  remained  for  some  time  stand- 
ing by  the  fire,  which  flashing  up  at  intervals  cast  blue  and 
white  gleams  of  light  that  enabled  my  uncle  to  remark  her 
appearance  minutely. 

Her  face  was  ghastly  pale,  and  perhaps  rendered  still  more 
so  by  the  blueish  light  of  the  fire.  It  possessed  beauty,  but  its 
beauty  was  saddened  by  care  and  anxiety.  There  was  the  look 
of  one  accustomed  to  trouble,  but  of  one  whom  trouble  could 
not  cast  down  nor  subdue ;  for  there  was  still  the  predominat- 
ing air  of  proud,  unconquerable  resolution.  Such,  at  least,  was 
the  opinion  formed  by  my  uncle,  and  he  considered  himself  a 
great  physiognomist. 

The  figure  remained,  as  I  said,  for  some  time  by  the  fire,  put- 
ting out  first  one  hand,  then  the  other,  then  each  foot,  alter- 
nately, as  if  warming  itself ;  for  your  ghosts,  if  ghost  it  really 
was,  are  apt  to  be  cold.  My  uncle  furthermore  remarked  that 
it  wore  high-heeled  shoes,  after  an  ancient  fashion,  with  paste 
or  diamond  buckles,  that  sparkled  as  though  they  were  alive. 
At  length  the  figure  turned  gently  round,  casting  a  glassy  look 
about  the  apartment,  which,  as  it  passed  over  my  uncle,  made 
his  blood  run  cold,  and  chilled  the  very  marrow  in  his  bones. 
It  then  stretched  its  arms  toward  heaven,  clasped  its  hands, 
and  wringing  them  in  a  supplicating  manner,  glided  slowly  out 
of  the  room. 

My  uncle  lay  for  some  time  meditating  on  this  visitation,  for 
(as  he  remarked  when  he  told  me  the  story)  though  a  man  of 
firmness,  he  was  also  a  man  of  reflection,  and  did  not  reject  a 
thing  because  it  was  out  of  the  regular  course  of  events.  How- 
ever, being,  as  I  have  before  said,  a  great  traveller,  and  accus- 
tomed to  strange  adventures,  he  drew  his  nightcap  resolutely 
over  his  eyes,  turned  his  back  to  the  door,  hoisted  the  bed- 
clothes high  over  his  shoulders,  and  gradually  fell  asleep. 

How  long  he  slept  he  could  not  say,  when  he  was  awakened 


16  TALES  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

by  the  voice  of  some  one  at  his  bed-side.  He  turned  round  and 
beheld  the  old  French  servant,  with  his  ear-locks  in  tight 
buckles  on  each  side  of  a  long,  lanthorn  face,  on  which  habit 
had  deeply  wrinkled  an  everlasting  smile.  He  made  a  thou- 
sand grimaces  and  asked  a  thousand  pardons  for  disturbing 
Monsieur,  but  the  morning  was  considerably  advanced.  While 
my  uncle  was  dressing,  he  called  vague!"  to  mind  the  visitor  oi: 
the  preceding  night.  He  asked  the  ancient  domestic  what  lady 
was  in  the  habit  of  rambling  about  this  part  of  the  chateau  at 
night.  The  old  valet  shrugged  his  shoulders  as  high  as  his 
head,  laid  one  hand  on  his  bosom,  threw  open  the  other  with 
every  finger  extended ;  made  a  most  whimsical  grimace,  which 
he  meant  to  be  complimentary: 

"  It  was  not  for  him  to  know  any  thing  of  les  braves  fortunes 
of  Monsieur.'' 

My  uncle  saw  there  was  nothing  satisfactory  to  be  learnt  in 
this  quarter.  After  breakfast  he  was  walking  with  the  Marquis 
through  the  modern  apartments  of  the  chateau;  sliding  over 
the  well-waxed  floors  of  silken  saloons,  amidst  furniture  rich  in 
gilding  and  brocade;  until  they  came  to  a  long  picture  gallery, 
containing  many  portraits,  some  in  oil  and  some  in  chalks. 

Here  was  an  ample  field  for  the  eloquence  of  his  host,  who 
had  all  the  family  pride  of  a  nobleman  of  the  ancien  regime. 
There  was  not  a  grand  name  in  Normandy,  and  hardly  one  in 
France,  that  was  not,  in  some  way  or  other,  connected  with  his 
house.  My  uncle  stood  listening  with  inward  impatience,  rest- 
ing sometimes  on  one  leg,  sometimes  on  the  other,  as  the  little 
Marquis  descanted,  with  his  usual  fire  and  vivacity,  on  the 
achievements  of  his  ancestors,  whose  portraits  hung  along  the 
wall ;  from  the  martial  deeds  of  the  stem  warriors  in  steel,  to 
the  gallantries  and  intrigues  of  the  blue-eyed  gentlemen,  with 
fair  smiling  faces,  powdered  ear-locks,  laced  ruffles,  and  pink 
and  blue  silk  coats  and  breeches ;  not  forgetting  the  conquests 
of  the  lovely  shepherdesses,  with  hoop  petticoats  and  waists  no 
thicker  than  an  hour  glass,  who  appeared  ruling  over  their 
sheep  and  their  swains  with  dainty  crooks  decorated  with  flut* 
tering  ribbands. 

In  the  midst  of  his  friend's  discourse  my  uncle's  eyes  rested 
on  a  full-length  portrait,  which  struck  him  as  being  the  very 
counterpart  of  his  visitor  of  the  preceding  night. 

"  Methinks,"  said  he,  pointing  to  it,  "I  have  seen  the  original 
of  this  portrait." 

11 Pardonnez  moi"  replied  the  Marquis  politely,  "that  can 


THE  ADVENTURE  OF  MY  UNCLE.  17 

hardly  be,  as  the  lady  has  been  dead  more  than  a  hundred 
years.  That  was  the  beautiful  Duchess  de  Longueville,  who 
figured  during  the  minority  of  Louis  the  Fourteenth." 

• '  And  was  there  any  thing  remarkable  in  her  history. " 

Never  was  question  more  unlucky.  The  little  Marquis  im- 
mediately threw  himself  into  the  attitude  of  a  man  about  to 
tell  a  long  story.  In  fact,  my  uncle  had  pulled  upon  himself 
the  whole  history  of  the  Civil  war  of  the  Fronde,  in  which  the 
beautiful  Duchess  had  played  so  distinguished  a  part.  Turenne, 
Coligni,  Mazarin,  were  called  up  from  their  graves  to  grace  his 
narration ;  nor  were  the  affairs  of  the  Barricadoes,  nor  the  chiv- 
alry of  the  Pertcocheres  forgotten.  My  uncle  began  to  wish 
himself  a  thousand  leagues  off  from  the  Marquis  and  his  merci- 
less memory,  when  suddenly  the  little  man's  recollections  took 
a  more  interesting  turn.  He  was  relating  the  imprisonment  of 
the  Duke  de  Longueville,  with  the  Princes  Conde  and  Conti, 
in  the  chateau  of  Vincennes,  and  the  ineffectual  efforts  of  the 
Duchess  to  rouse  the  sturdy  Normans  to  their  rescue.  He  had 
come  to  that  part  where  she  was  invested  by  the  royal  forces 
in  the  chateau  of  Dieppe,  and  in  imminent  danger  of  falling  into 
their  hands. 

"The  spirit  of  the  Duchess,"  proceeded  the  Marquis,  "rose 
with  her  trials.  It  was  astonishing  to  see  so  delicate  and  beau- 
tiful a  being  buffet  so  resolutely  with  hardships.  She  deter- 
mined on  a  desperate  means  of  escape.  One  dark  unruly  night, 
she  issued  secretly  out  of  a  small  postern  gate  of  the  castle, 
which  the  enemy  had  neglected  to  guard.  She  was  followed  by 
her  female  attendants,  a  few  domestics,  and  some  gallant  cava- 
liers who  still  remained  faithful  to  her  fortunes.  Her  object 
was  to  gain  a  small  port  about  two  leagues  distant,  where  she 
had  privately  provided  a  vessel  for  her  escape  in  case  of  emer- 
gency. 

The  little  band  of  fugitives  were  obliged  to  perform  the  dis- 
tance on  foot.  When  they  arrived  at  the  port  the  wind  was 
high  and  stormy,  the  tide  contrary,  the  vessel  anchored  far  off 
in  the  road,  and  no  means  of  getting  on  board,  but  by  a  fishing 
shallop  that  lay  tossing  like  a  cockle  shell  on  the  edge  of  the 
surf.  The  Duchess  determined  to  risk  the  attempt.  The  sea- 
men endeavored  to  dissuade  her,  but  the  imminence  of  her 
danger  on  shore,  and  the  magnanimity  of  her  spirit  urged  her 
on.  She  had  to  be  borne  to  the  shallop  in  the  arms  of  a  mari- 
ner.    Such  was  the  viol  the  wind  and  waves,  that  he 


18  TALES   OF  A    TEA  FELLER. 

faltered,  losi  his  foothold,  and  let  his  precious  burden  fall  into 

the  sea. 

"The  Duchess  was  nearly  drowned;  but  partly  through  her 
own  struggles  partly  b\  the  exertions  i>f  the  seamen,  she  got 
to  land.  As  Boon  as  she  had  a  little  recovered  strength,  she 
ted  on  renewing  the  attempt.  The  storm,  however,  had 
by  this  time  become  so  violent  as  to  set  all  efforts  at  defiance 
To  delay,  was  to  be  discovered  and  taken  prisoner.  As  the  only 
resource  left,  she  procured  horses;  mounted  with  her  female 
attendants  en  croupe  behind  the  gallant  gentlemen  who  accom- 
panied her;  and  scoured  the  country  to  seek  some  temporary 
asylum. 

"While  the  Duchess,"  continued  the  Marquis,  laying  his  fore- 
finger on  my  uncle's  breast  to  arouse  his  flagging  attention, 
"while  the  Duchess,  poor  lady,  was  wandering  amid  the  tem- 
pest in  this  disconsolate  manner,  she  arrived  at  this  chateau. 
Her  approach  caused  some  uneasiness;  for  the  clattering  of  a 
troop  of  horse,  at  dead  of  night,  up  the  avenue  of  a  lonely 
chateau,  in  those  unsettled  times,  and  in  a  troubled  part  of  the 
country,  was  enough  to  occasion  alarm. 

' '  A  tall,  broad-shouldered  chasseur,  armed  to  the  teeth,  gal- 
loped ahead,  and  announced  the  name  of  the  visitor.  All  un- 
easiness was  dispelled.  The  household  turned  out  with  flam- 
beaux to  receive  her,  and  never  did  torches  gleam  on  a  more 
weather-beaten,  travel-stained  band  than  came  tramping  into 
the  court.  Such  pale,  care-worn  faces,  such  bedraggled  dresses, 
as  the  poor  Duchess  and  her  ffemales  presented,  each  seated  be- 
hind her  cavalier ;  while  half  drenched,  half  drowsy  pages  and 
attendants  seemed  ready  to  fall  from  their  horses  with  sleep 
and  fatigue. 

' '  The  Duchess  was  received  with  a  hearty  welcome  by  my 
ancestors.  She  was  ushered  into  the  Hall  of  the  chateau,  and 
the  fires  soon  crackled  and  blazed  to  cheer  herself  and  her  train ; 
and  every  spit  and  stewpan  was  put  in  requisition  to  prepare 
ample  refreshments  for  the  wayfarers. 

"She  had  a  right  to  our  hospitalities,"  continued  the  little 
Marquis,  drawing  himself  up  with  a  slight  degree  of  stateliness, 
"for  she  was  related  to  our  family.  I'll  tell  you  how  it  was; 
Her  father,  Henry  de  Bourbon,  Prince  of  Conde — " 

"But  did  the  Duchess  pass  the  night  in  the  chateau?"  said  my 
uncle  rather  abruptly,  terrified  at  the  idea  of  getting  involved 
in  one  of  the  Marquis's  genealogical  discussions. 

"  Oh,  as  to  the  Duchess,  she  was  put  into  the  apartment  you 


THE  ADVir  OF  Mt   UXC  J<J 

occupied  last  night;  which,  at  that  time,  was  a  kind  of  state 
apartment.  Her  followers  were  quartered  in  the  chambers 
opening  upon  the  neighboring  corridor,  and  her  favorite  page 
slept  in  an  adjoining  closet.  Up  and  down  the  corridor  walked 
the  great  chasseur,  who  had  announced  her  arrival,  and  who 
acted  as  a  kind  of  sentinel  or  guard.  He  was  a  dark,  stern, 
powerful-looking  fellow,  and  as  the  light  of  a  lamp  in  the  corri- 
dor fell  upon  his  deeply-marked  face  and  sinewy  form,  he 
seemed  capable  of  defending  the  castle  with  his  single  arm. 

"It  was  a  rough,  rude  night;  about  this  thne  of  the  year.— 
Apropos— now  I  think  of  it,  last  night  was  the  anniversary  of 
her  visit.  I  may  well  remember  the  precise  date,  for  it  was  a 
night  not  to  be  forgotten  by  our  house.  There  is  a  singular 
tradition  concerning  it  in  our  family."  Here  the  Marquis  hesi- 
tated, and  a  cloud  seemed  to  gather  about  his  bushy  eye- 
brows. ' '  There  is  a  tradition — that  a  strange  occurrence  took 
place  that  night— a  strange,  mysterious,  inexplicable  occur- 
rence." 

Here  he  checked  himself  and  paused. 

"  Did  it  relate  to  that  lady?"  inquired  my  uncle,  eagerly. 

"  It  was  past  the  hour  of  midnight,"  resumed  the  Marquis — 
"when  the  whole  chateau — " 

Here  he  paused  again — my  uncle  made  a  movement  of  anx- 
ious curiosity. 

"Excuse  me."  said  the  Marquis — a  slight  blush  streaking  his 
sullen  visage.  ' l  There  are  some  circumstances  connected  with 
our  family  history  which  I  do  not  like  to  relate.  That  was  a 
rude  period.  A  time  of  great  crimes  among  great  men:  for 
you  know  high  blood,  when  it  runs  wrong,  will  not  run  tamely 
like  blood  of  the  canaille — poor  lady ! — But  I  have  a  little  family 
pride,  that — excuse  me — we  will  change  the  subject  if  you 
please." — 

My  uncle's  curiosity  was  piqued.  The  pompous  and  magnif- 
icent introduction  had  led  him  to  expect  something  wonderful 
in  the  story  to  which  it  served  as  a  kind  of  avenue.  He  had 
no  idea  of  being  cheated  out  of  it  by  a  sudden  fit  of  unreasona- 
ble squeamislmess.  Besides,  being  a  traveller,  in  quest  of  in- 
formation, considered  it  his  duty  to  inquire  into  every  thing.  . 

The  Marquis,  however,  evaded  every  question. 

"WeU,"  said  my  uncle,  a  little  petulantly,  "whatever  you 
may  think  of  it,  I  saw  that  lady  Jast  night." 

The  Marquis  stepped  back  and  gazed  at  him  with  surprise. 

"She  paid  me  a  visit  in  my  bed-chamber." 


20  TALES  OF  A    TRAVEL  I 

The  Marquis  pulled  out  his  snuff-box  with  a  shrug  and  a 
smile;  taking  it  no  doubt  for  an  awkward  piece  of  English 
pleasantry,  which  politeness  required  him  to  be  charmed  with. 
My  uncle  went  on  gravely,  however,  and  related  the  whole 
circumstance.  The  Marquis  heard  him  through  with  profound 
attention,  holding  his  snuff-box  unopened  in  his  hand.  When 
the  story  was  finished  he  tapped  on  the  lid  of  his  box  deliber 
ately ;  took  a  long  sonorous  pinch  of  snuff — 

"Bah!'7  said  the  Marquis,  and  walked  toward  the  other  end 
of  the  gallery.— 


Here  the  narrator  paused.  The  company  waited  for  some 
time  for  him  to  resume  his  narrative ;  but  he  continued  silent. 

k>  Well,"  said  the  inquisitive  gentleman,  "and  what  did  your 
uncle  say  then?" 

"Nothing."  replied  the  other. 

"And  what  did  the  Marquis  say  farther?" 

"Nothing." 

"And  is  that  all r 

"  That  is  all,"  said  the  narrator,  filling  a  glass  of  wine. 

"  I  surmise,"  said  the  shrewd  old  gentleman  with  the  wag- 
gish nose — •<  I  surmise  it  was  the  old  housekeeper  walking  her 
rounds  to  see  that  all  was  right." 

"Bah!"  said  the  narrator,  "my  uncle  was  too  much  accus- 
tomed to  strange  sights  not  to  know  a  ghost  from  a  house- 
keeper!" 

There  was  a  murmur  round  the  table  half  of  merriment,  half 
of  disappointment.  I  was  inclined  to  think  the  old  gentleman 
had  really  an  af terpart  of  his  story  in  reserve ;  but  he  sipped 
his  wine  and  said  nothing  more ;  and  there  was  an  odd  expres- 
sion about  his  dilapidated  countenance  that  left  me  in  doubt 
whether  he  were  in  drollery  or  earnest. 

"  Egad,"  said  the  knowing  gentleman  with  the  flexible  nose, 
1 '  this  story  of  your  uncle  puts  me  in  mind  of  one  that  used  to 
be  told  of  an  aunt  of  mine,  by  the  mother's  side ;  though  I  don't 
know  that  it  will  bear  a  comparison ;  as  the  good  lady  was  not 
quite  so  prone  to  meet  with  strange  adventures.  But  at  any 
rate,  you  shall  have  it. 


THE  ADVENTURE  OF  MY  Ai  21 


THE  ADVENTURE  OF  MY  AUNT. 

My  aunt  was  a  lady  of  large  frame,  strong  mind,  and  groat 
resolution;  she  was  what  might  be  termed  a  very  manly 
woman.  My  uncle  was  a  thin,  puny  little  man,  very  meek 
and  acquiescent,  and  no  match  for  my  aunt.  It  was  observed 
that  he  dwindled  and  dwindled  gradually  away,  from  the  day 
of  his  marriage.  His  wife's  powerful  mind  wras  too  much  for 
him ;  it  wore  him  out.  My  aunt,  however,  took  all  possible 
care  of  him,  had  half  the  doctors,  in  town  to  prescribe  for  him, 
made  him  take  ail  their  prescriptions,  icilly  nilly,  and  dosed 
him  with  physic  enough  to  cure  a  wThole  hospital.  All  w^as  in 
vain.  My  uncle  grew  worse  and  worse  the  more  dosing  and 
nursing  he  underwent,  until  in  the  end  he  added  another  to  the 
long  list  of  matrimonial  victims,  who  have  been  killed  with 
kindness. 

''And  was  it  his  ghost  that  appeared  to  her?"  asked  the  in- 
quisitive gentleman,  who  had  questioned  the  former  story- 
teller. 

uYou  shall  hear,"  replied  the  narrator: — My  aunt  took  on 
mightily  for  the  death  of  her  poor  dear  husband !  Perhaps  she 
felt  some  compunction  at  having  given  him  so  much  physic, 
and  nursed  him  into  his  grave.  At  any  rate,  she  did  all  that  a 
widow  could  do  to  honor  his  memory.  She  spared  no  expense 
in  either  the  quantity  or  quality  of  her  mourning  weeds ;  she 
wore  a  miniature  of  him  about  her  neck,  as  large  as  a  little  sun 
dial :  and  she  had  a  full-length  portrait  of  him  always  hanging 
in  her  bed  chamber.  All  the  world  extolled  her  conduct  to  the 
skies ;  and  it  was  determined,  that  a  woman  who  behaved  so 
well  to  the  memory  of  one  husband,  deserved  soon  to  get 
another. 

It  was  not  long  after  this  that  she  went  to  take  up  her  resi- 
dence in  an  old  country  seat  in  Derbyshire,  which  had  long  been 
in  the  care  of  merely  a  steward  and  housekeeper.  She  took 
most  of  her  servants  with  her,  intending  to  make  it  her  pripci- 
pal  abode.  The  house  stood  in  a  lonely,  wild  part  of  the  coun- 
try, among  the  gray  Derbyshire  hills ;  with  a  murderer  hang- 
ing in  chains  on  a  bleak  height  in  full  vieAv. 

The  servants  from  town  were  half  frightened  out  of  their  m  its, 
at  the  idea  of  living  in  such  a  dismal,  pagan-looking  place; 
especially  when  they  got  together  in  the  servants'  hall  in  the 


22  TALES  OF  A  TRAVELLER, 

evening,  and  compared  notes  on  all  the  hobgoblin  stories  they 
had  picked  up  in  the  course  of  the  day.  They  were  afraid  to 
venture  alone  about  the  forlorn  black-looking  chambers.  My 
ladies'  maid,  who  was  troubled  with  nerves,  declared  she  could 
never  sleep  alone  in  such  a  "gashly,  rummaging  old  building;" 
and  the  footman,  who  was  a  kind-hearted  young  fellow,  did  all 
in  his  power  to  cheer  her  up. 

My  aunt,  herself,  seemed  to  be  struck  with  the  lonely  appear- 
ance of  the  house.  Before  she  went  to  bed,  therefore,  she 
examined  well  the  fastenings  of  the  doors  and  windows,  locked 
up  the  plate  with  her  own  hands,  and  carried  the  keys,  together 
with  a  little  box  of  money  and  jewels,  to  her  own  room ;  for 
she  was  a  notable  woman,  and  always  saw  to  all  things  herself. 
1  Caving  put  the  keys  under  her  pillow,  and  dismissed  her  maid, 
she  sat  by  her  toilet  arranging  her  hair ;  for,  being,  in  spite  of 
her  grief  for  my  uncle,  rather  a  buxom  widow,  she  was  a  little 
particular  about  her  person.  She  sat  for  a  little  while  looking 
at  her  face  in  the  glass,  first  on  one  side,  then  on  the  other,  as 
ladies  are  apt  to  do,  when  they  would  ascertain  if  they  have 
been  in  good  looks;  for  a  roystering  country  squire  of  the 
neighborhood,  with  whom  she  had  flirted  when  a  girl,  had 
called  that  day  to  welcome  her  to  the  country. 

All  of  a  sudden  she  thought  she  heard  something  move  behind 
her.  She  looked  hastily  round,  but  there  was  nothing  to  be 
seen.  Nothing  but  the  grimly  painted  portrait  of  her  poor  dear 
man,  which  had  been  hung  against  the  wall.  She  gave  a  heavy 
sigh  to  his  memory,  as  she  was  accustomed  to  do,  whenever 
she  spoke  of  him  in  company ;  and  went  on  adjusting  her  night- 
dress. Her  sigh  was  re-echoed ;  or  answered  by  a  long-drawn 
breath.  She  looked  round  again,  but  no  one  was  to  be  seen. 
She  ascribed  these  sounds  to  the  wind,  oozing  through  the  rat 
holes  of  the  old  mansion;  and  proceeded  leisurely  to  put  her 
hair  in  papers,  when,  all  at  once,  she  thought  she  perceived 
one  of  the  eyes  of  the  portrait  move. 

' '  The  back  of  her  head  being  towards  it !"  said  the  story-teller 
with  the  ruined  head,  giving  a  knowing  wink  on  the  sound 
side  of  his  visage—"  good !" 

"Yes,  sir!"  replied  drily  the  narrator,  "her  back  being 
towards  the  portrait,  but  her  eye  fixed  on  its  reflection  in  the 
glass." 

Well,  as  I  was  saying,  she  perceived  one  of  the  eyes  of  the 
portrait  move.  So  strange  a  circumstance,  as  you  may  well 
suppose,  gave  her  a  sudden  shock.     To  assure  herself  cautiously 


TEE  AHVENTURE  OF  MY  AUNT.  23 

of  the  fact,  she  put  one  hand  to  her  forehead,  as  if  rubbing  it; 
peeped  through  her  fingers,  and  moved  the  candle  with  the 
other  hand.  The  light  of  the  taper  gleamed  on  the  eye,  and 
was  reflected  from  it.  She  was  sure  it  moved.  Nay,  more,  it 
seemed  to  give  her  a  wink,  as  she  had  sometimes  known  her 
husband  to  do  when  living!  It  struck  a  momentary  chill  to  her 
heart;  for  she  was  a  lone  woman,  and  felt  herself  fearfully 
situated. 

The  chill  was  but  transient.  My  aunt,  who  was  almost  as 
resolute  a  personage  as  your  uncle,  sir,  (turning  to  the  old 
story-teller,)  became  instantly  calm  and  collected.  She  went 
on  adjusting  her  dress.  She  even  hummed  a  favorite  air,  and 
did  not  make  a  single  false  note.  She  casually  overturned  a 
dressing  box ;  took  a  candle  and  picked  up  the  articles  leisurely, 
one  by  one,  from  the  floor,  pursued  a  rolling  pin-cushion  that 
was  making  the  best  of  its  way  under  the  bed ;  then  opened  the 
door;  looked  for  an  instant  into  the  corridor,  as  if  in  doubt 
whether  to  go ;  and  then  walked  quietly  out. 

She  hastened  down-stairs,  ordered  the  servants  to  arm  them- 
selves  with  the  first  weapons  that  came  to  hand,  placed  herself 
at  their  head,  and  returned  almost  immediately. 

Her  hastily  levied  army  presented  a  formidable  force.  The 
steward  had  a  rusty  blunderbuss ;  the  coachman  a  loaded  whip ; 
the  footman  a  pair  of  horse  pistols ;  the  cook  a  huge  chopping 
knife,  and  the  butler  a  bottle  in  each  hand.  My  aunt  led  the 
van  with  a  red-hot  poker;  and,  in  my  opinion,  she  was  the 
most  formidable  of  the  party.  The  waiting  maid  brought  up 
the  rear,  dreading  to  stay  alone  in  the  servants' hall,  smelling 
to  a  broken  bottle  of  volatile  salts,  and  expressing  her  terror  of 
the  ghost'  - 

"  Ghosts!11  said  my  aunt  resolutely,  "  I'll  singe  their  whiskers 
for  them!" 

They  entered  the  chamber.  All  was  still  and  undisturbed  ns 
when  she  left  it.     They  approached  the  portrait  of.  my  uncle. 

"  Pull  me  down  that  picture!*'  cried  my  aunt. 

A  heavy  groan,  and  a  sound  like  the  chattering  of  teeth,  was 
heard  from  the  portrait.  The  servants  shrunk  back.  The  maid 
uttered  a  faint  shriek,  and  clung  to  the  footman. 

"  Instantly  I"  added  my  aunt,  with  a  stamp  of  the  foot. 

The  picture  was  pulled  down,  and  from  a  recess  behind  it,  in 
which  had  formerly  stood  a  clock,  they  hauled  forth  a  round 
shouldered,  block-bearded  varlet,  with  a  knife  as  long  as  un- 
arm, but  trembling  ail  over  like  an  aspen  leaf. 


24  TALES   OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

"Well,  and  who  was  he?  No  ghost,  I  suppose !"  said  the 
inquisitive  gentleman. 

"A  knight  of  the  post,"  replied  the  narrator,  "who  had  been 
smitten  with  the  worth  of  the  wealthy  Widow ;  or  rather  a 
marauding  Tarquin,  who  had  stolen  into  her  chamber  to  violate 
her  purse  and  rifle  her  strong  box  when  all  the  house  should  be 
p.  In  plain  terms,"  continued  he,  "the  vagabond  was  a 
loose  idle  fellow  of  the  neighborhood,  who  had  once  been  a 
servant  in  the  house,  and  had  been  employed  to  assist  in  arrang- 
ing it  for  the  reception  of  its  mistress.  He  confessed  that  he 
had  contrived  his  hiding-place  f< .>r  his  nefarious  purposes,  and 
had  borrowed  an  eye  from  the  portrait  by  way  of  a  recon- 
noitering  hole." 

"And  what  did  they  do  with  him— did  they  hang  him?" 
resumed  the  questiooer. 

"Hang  him? — how  could  I  hoy?"  exclaimed  a  beetle-browed 
barrister,  with  a  hawk's  Hose — "the  offence  was  not  capital- 
no  robbery  nor  assault  hod  been  committed— no  forcible  entry 
or  breaking  into  the  premises — ' 

"My  aunt,"  said  the  narrator,  "was  a  woman  of  spirit,  and 
apt  to  take  the  law  into  her  own  hands.  She  had  her  own 
notions  of  cleanliness  also.  She  ordered  the  fellow  to  be  drawn 
through  the  horsepond  to  clea7ise  away  all  offences,  and  then 
to  be  well  rubbed  down  with  an  oaken  towel." 

"And  what  became  of  him  afterwards?"  said  the  inquisitivo 
gentleman. 

"  I  do  not  exactly  know — I  believe  he  was  sent  on  a  voyage 
of  improvement  to  Botany  Bay." 

"And  your  aunt—"  said  the  inquisitive  gentleman—" I'll 
warrant  she  took  care  to  make  her  maid  sleep  in  the  room  with 
her  after  that." 

4 '  No,  sir,  she  did  better— she  gave  her  hand  shortly  after  to 
the  roystering  squire ;  for  she  used  to  observe  it  was  a  dismal 
thing  for  a  woman  to  sleep  alone  in  the  country." 

"She  was  right,"  observed  the  inquisitive  gentleman,  nod- 
ding his  head  sagaciously—"  but  I  am  sorry  they  did  not  ha.ng 
that  fellow." 

It  was  agreed  on  all  hands  that  the  last  narrator  had  brought 
his  tale  to  the  most  satisfactory  conclusion;  though  a  country 
clergyman  present  regretted  that  the  uncle  and  aunt,  who 
figured  in  the  different  stories,  had  not  been  married  together. 
They  certainly  w^ould  have  been  well  matched. 


THE  BOLD  DRAGO  95 

"But  I  don't  see,  after  all,"  said  the  inquisitive  gentleman, 
"that  there  was  any  ghost  in  this  last  story. " 

•-  Oh,  if  it's  ghosts  you  want,  honey,''  cried  the  Irish  captain 

of  dragoons,  "  if  it's  ghosts  you  want,  you  shall  have  a  whole 

ient  of  them.      And   since  these  gentlemen  have  been 

giving  the  adventures  of  their  uncles  and  aunts,  faith  and  I'D 

3en  give  you  a  chapter  too,  out  of  my  own  family  history." 


THE  BOLD  DRAGOON; 

OR  THE  ADVENTURE  OF  MY  GRANDFATHER. 

My  grandfather  was  a  bold  dragoon,  for  it's  a  profession,  d'ye 
see,  that  has  run  in  the  family.  All  my  f oref athers  have  been 
dragoons  and  died  upon  the  field  of  honor  except  myself,  and 
I  hope  my  posterity  may  be  able  to  say  the  same ;  however,  I 
don't  mean  to  be  vainglorious.  Well,  my  grandfather,  as  I 
said,  was  a  bold  dragoon,  and  had  served  in  the  Low  Coun- 
tries. In  fact,  he  was  one  of  that  very  army,  which,  according 
to  my  uncle  Toby,  "swore  so  terribly  in  Flanders. "'  He, could 
swear  a  good  stick  himself;  and,  moreover,  was  the  very  man 
that  introduced  the  doctrine  Corporal  Trim  mentions,  of  radi- 
cal heat  and  radical  moisture;  or,  in  other  words,  the  mode 
of  keeping  out  the  damps  of  ditch  water  by  burnt  brandy. 
Be  that  as  it  may,  it's  nothing  to  the  purport  of  my  story.  I 
only  tell  it  to  show  you  that  my  grandfather  was  a  man  not 
easily  to  be  humbugged.  He  had  seen  service;  or,  according 
to  his  own  phrase,  "he  had  seen  the  devil" — and  that's  say- 
ing everything. 

Well,  gentlemen,  my  grandfather  was  on  his  way  to  Eng- 
land, for  which  he  intended  to  embark  at  Ostend ;— bad  luck 
to  the  place  for  one  where  I  was  kept  by  storms  and  bead 
winds  for  three  long  days,  and  the  divil  of  a  jolly  companion 
or  pretty  foce  to  comfort  me.  Well,  as  I  was  saying,  my 
grandfather  was  on  his  way  to  England,  or  rather  to  Ostend— 
no  matter  which,  it's  all  the  same.  So  one  evening,  towards 
nightfall,  he  rode  jollily  into  Bruges.  Very  like  you  all  know 
Bruges,  gentlemen,  a  queer,  old-fasluoned  Flemish  town,  once 
they  say  a  great  place  for  trade  and  money-making,  in  old 
times,  when  the  Mynheers  were  in  their  glory ;  but  almost  as 
large  and  as  empty  as  an  Irishman's  pocket  at  the  present  day. 


20  TALES  OF  A    TRAVELLER 

Well,  gentlemen,  it  was  the  time  of  the  annual  fair.  All 
Bruges  was  crowded ;  and  the  canals  swarmed  with  Dutch 
boats,  and  the  streets  swarmed  with  Dutch  merchants;  and 
there  was  hardly  any  getting  along  for  goods,  wares,  and 
merchandises,  and  peasants  in  big  breeches,  and  women  in 
half  a  score  of  petticoats. 

My  grandfather  rode  jollily  along  in  his  easy,  slashing  way, 
for  he  was  a  saucy,  sunshiny  fellow — staring  about  him  at  the 
motley  crowd,  and  the  old  houses  with  gable  ends  to  the 
street  and  storks'  nests  on  the  chimneys ;  winking  at  the  ya 
vrouws  who  showed  their  faces  at  the  windows,  and  joking  the 
women  right  and  left  in  the  street ;  all  of  whom  laughed  and 
took  it  in  amazing  good  part;  for  though  he  did  not  know 
a  word  of  their  language,  yet  he  always  had  a  knack  of  making 
himself  understood  among  the  women. 

Well,  gentlemen,  it  being  the  time  of  the  annual  fair,  all  the 
town  was  crowded ;  every  inn  and  tavern  full,  and  my  grand- 
father  applied,  in  vain  from  one  to  the  other  for  admittance. 
At  length  he  rode  up  to  an  old  rackety  inn  that  looked  ready 
to  Call  to  pieces,  and  which  all  the  rats  would  have  run  away 
from,  if  they  could  have  found  room  in  any  other  house  to  put 
their  keads.  it  was  just  such  a  queer  building  as  you  see  in 
Dutch  pictures,  with  a  tall  roof  that  reached  up  into  the 
clouds ;  and  as  many  garrets,  one  over  the  other,  as  the  seven 
heavens  of  .Mahomet.  Nothing  had  saved  it  from  tumbling 
down  but  a  stork's  nest  on  the 'chimney,  which  always  brings 
good  luck  to  a  house  in  the  Low  Countries ;  and  at  the  very 
time  of  my  grandfather's  arrival,  there  were  two  of  these  long- 
legged  birds  of  grace,  standing  like  ghosts  on  the  chimney  top. 
Faith,  but  they've  kept  the  house  on  its  legs  to  this  very  day ; 
for  you  may  see  it  any  time  you  pass  through  Bruges,  as  it 
stands  there  yet ;  only  it  is  turned  into  a  brewery — a  brew- 
ery of  strong  Flemish  beer;  at  least  it  was  so  when  I  came 
that  way  after  the  battle  of  Waterloo. 

My  grandfather  eyed  the  house  curiously  as  he  approached. 
It  might  not  altogether  have  struck  his  fancy,  had  he  not  seen 
in  large  letters  over  the  door, 

HEER  VERKOOPT  MAN  GOEDEN  DRANK. 

My  grandfather  had  learnt  enough  of  the  language  to  know 
that  the  sign  promised  good  liquor.  "This  is  the  house  for 
me,"  said  he,  stopping  short  before  the  door. 


THE  BOLD  DBAGOOft.  27 

The  sudden  appearance  of  a  dashing  dragoon  was  an  event 
in  an  old  inn,  frequented  only  by  the  peaceful  sons  of  to 
A  rich  burgher  of  Antwerp,  a  stately  ample  man,  in  a  broad 
Flemish  hat,  and  who  was  the  great  man  and  great  patron  of 
the  establishment,  sat  smoking  a  clean  long  pipe  on  one  side  of 
the  door;  a  fat  little  distiller  of  Geneva  from  Schiedam,  sat 
smoking  on  the  other,  and  the  bottle-nosed  host  stood  in  the 
door,  and  the  comely  hostess,  in  crimped  cap,  beside  him;  and 
the  hostess'  daughter,  a  plump  Flanders  lass,  with  long  gold 
pendants  in  her  ears,  was  at  a  side  window. 

"  Humph!"  said  the  rich  burgher  of  Antwerp,  with  a  sulky 
glance  at  the  stranger. 

"  Der  duyvel !"  said  the  fat  little  distiller  of  Schiedam. 

The  landlord  saw  with  the  quick  glance  of  a  publican  that 
the  new  guest  was  not  at  all,  at -all,  to  the  taste  of  the  old  ones; 
and  to  tell  the  truth,  he  did  not  himself  like  my  grandfather's 
saucy  eye.  He  shook  his  head—"  Not  a  garret  in  the  house  but 
was  full. " 

"  Not  a  garret !"  echoed  the  landlady. 

k>  Not  a  garret !"  echoed  the  daughter. 

The  burgher  of  Antwerp  and  the  little  distiller  of  Schiedam 
continued  to  smoke  their  pipes  sullenly,  eyed  the  enemy 
askance  from  under  their  broad  hats,  but  said  nothing. 

My  grandfather  was  not  a  man  to  be  browbeaten.  He  threw 
the  reins  on  his  horse's  neck,  cocked  his  hat  on  one  side,  stuck 
one  arm  akimbo,  slapped  his  broad  thigh  with  the  other 
hand— 

"  Faith  and  troth !"  said  he,  "  but  I'll  sleep  in  this  house  this 
very  night !" 

My  grandfather  had  on  a  tight  pair  of  buckskins— the  slap 
went  to  the  landlady's  heart. 

He  followed  up  the  vow  by  jumping  off  his  horse,  and  mak- 
ing his  way  past  the  staring  Mynheers  into  the  public  room 
May  be  you've  been  in  the  barroom  of  an  old  Flemish  inn — 
faith,  but  a  handsome  chamber  it  was  as  you'd  wish  to  see ; 
with  a  brick  floor,  a  great  fire-place,  with  the  whole  Bible  his- 
tory in  glazed  tiles;  and  then  the  mantel-piece,  pitching  itself 
head  foremost  out  of  the  wall,  with  a  whole  regiment  of 
cracked  tea-pots  and  earthen  jugs  paraded  on  it:  not  to  men- 
tion half  a  dozen  great  Delft  platters  hung  about  the  room  by 
way  of  pictures;  and  the  little  bar  in  one  corner,  and  the 
bouncing  bar-maid  inside  of  it  with  a  red  calico  cap  and  yellow 
ear-drops. 


03  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER/ 

My  grandfather  snapped  his  fingers  over  his  head,  as  he  cast 
an  eye  round  the  room:  "Faith,  this  is  the  very  house  I've^ 
been  looking  after,"  said  he. 

There  was  some  farther  show  of  resistance  on  the  part  of  the 
garrison,  but  my  grandfather  was  an  old  soldier,  and  an  Irish- 
man to  boot,  and  not  easily  repulsed,  especially  after  he  had 
got  into  the  fortress.  So  he  blarney'd  the  landlord,  kissed  the 
landlord's  wife,  tickled  the  landlord's  daughter,  chucked  the 
bar-maid  under  the  chin ;  and  it  was  agreed  on  all  hands  that  it  \ 
would  be  a  thousand  pities,  and  a  burning  shame  into  the  bar- 
gain, to  turn  such  a  bold  dragoon  into  the  streets.  So  they  laid 
their  heads  together,  that  is  to  say,  my  grandfather  and  the 
landlady,  and  it  was  at  length  agreed  to  accommodate  him 
with  an  old  chamber  that  had  for  some  time  been  shut  up. 

"Some  say  it's  haunted  P'  whispered  the  landlord's  daughter, 
"but  you're  a  bold  dragoon,  and  I  dare  say  you  don't  fear 
is." 

"The  divil  a  bit!"  said  my  grandfather,  pinching  her  plump 
cheek;  "but  if  I  should  be  troubled  by  ghosts,  I've  been  to  the 
Red  Sea  in  my  time,  and  have  a  pleasant  way  of  laying  them, 
my  darling !" 

And  then  he  whispered  something  to  the  girl  which  made  her 
laugh,  and  give  him  a  good-humored  box  on  the  ear.     In  short, 
nobody  knew  better  how  to  make  his  way  among  the 
petticoats  than  my  grandfather. 

In  a  little  while,  as  was  his  usual  way,  he  took  complete  pos- 
■  >n  of  the  house :  swaggering  all  over  it ; — into  the  stable  to 
look  alter  his  horse ;  into  the  kitchen  to  look  after  his  supper. 
He  had  something  to  say  or  do  with  every  one ;  smoked  with 
the  Dutchmen ;  drank  with  the  Germans ;  slapped  the  men  on 
the  shoulders,  tickled  the  women  under  the  ribs : — never  since 
the  days  of  Ally  Croaker  had  such  a  rattling  blade  been  seen. 
The  landlord  stared  at  him  with  astonishment ;  the  landlord's 
laughter  hung  her  head  and  giggled  whenever  he  came  near; 
and  as  he  turned  his  back  and  swaggered  along,  his  tight  jacket 
setting  off  his  broad  shoulders  and  plump  buckskins,  and  his  long 
sword  trailing  by  his  side,  the  maids  whispered  to  one  another 
— "  What  a  proper  man !" 

At  supper  my  grandfather  took  command  of  the  table  d'h6te 
as  though  he  had  been  at  home ;  helped  everybody,  not  forget- 
ting himself ;  talked  with  every  one,  whether  he  understood 
their  language  or  not ;  and  made  his  way  into  the  intimacy  of 
the  rich  burgher  of  Antwerp,  who  had  never  been  known  to  be 


THE  BOLD  DRAGOON.  29 

sociable  with  any  one  during  his  life.  In  fact,  he  revolution- 
ized the  whole  establishment,  and  gave  it  such  a  rouse,  that 
the  very  house  reeled  with  it.  He  outsat  every  one  at  table 
excepting  the  little  fat  distiller  of  Schiedam,  who  had  sat  soak- 
ing for  a  long  time  before  he  broke  forth ;  but  when  he  did,  he 
was  a  very  devil  incarnate.  He  took  a  violent  affection  for  my 
grandfather;  so  they  sat  drinking,  and  smoking,  and  telling 
stories,  and  singing  Dutch  and  Irish  songs,  without  understand- 
ing a  word  each  other  said,  until  the  little  Hollander  was  fairly 
swampt  with  his  own  gin  and  water,  and  carried  off  to  bed, 
whooping  and  hiccuping,  and  trolling  the  burthen  of  a  Low 
Dutch  love  song. 

Well,  gentlemen,  my  grandfather  was  shown  to  his  quarters, 
up  a  huge  staircase  composed  of  loads  of  hewn  timber;  and 
through  long  rigmarole  passages;  hung  with  blackened  paintings 
of  fruit,  and  fish,  and  game,  and  country  trollies,  and  huge 
kitchens,  and  portly  burgomasters,  such  as  you  see  about  old 
fashioned  Flemish  inns,  till  at  length  he  arrived  at  his  room. 

An  old-times  chamber  it  was,  sure  enough,  and  crowded  with 
all  kinds  of  trumpery.  It  looked  like  an  infirmary  for  decayed 
and  superannuated  furniture ;  where  everything  diseased  and 
disabled  was  sent  to  nurse,  or  to  be  forgotten.  Or  rather,  it 
might  have  been  taken  for  a  general  congress  of  old  legitimate 
moveables,  where  every  kind  and  country  had  a  represent 
No  two  chatTs  were  alike :  such  high  backs  and  low  backs,  and 
leather  bottoms  and  worsted  bottoms,  and  straw  bottoms,  and 
no  bottoms ;  and  cracked  marble  tables  with  curiously  carved 
legs,  holding  balls  in  their  claws,  as  though  they  were  going  to 
play  at  ninepins. 

My  grandfather  made  a  bow  to  the  motley  assemblage  as  he 
entered,  and  having  undressed  himself,  placed  his  light  in  the 
fire-place,  asking  pardon  of  the  tongs,  which  seemed  to  be 
making  love  to  the  shovel  in  the  chimney-corner,  and  whisper- 
il  car. 

of  the  guests  were  by  this  time  sound  asleep  ;  for 
your  Mynheers  are  hu^c  sleepers.     The   house  maids,  dj 
one,  crept  up  yawning  to  their  attics,  and  not  a  fern  rile   head 
in  the  inn  was  laid  on  a  pillow  that  night  without  dreaming  of 
the  Bold  Dragoon. 

My  grandfather,  for  his  part,  got   itil  1  drew 

him  one  of  those  great  bags"  of  down,  under  which  they  sin- 
a  man  in  the  Low  Countries  :  and  ther<   belay,  m<  Itiijg  between 
two  feather  beds,  like  an  anchovy  sandwich  I 


30  TALES  OF  A    TRAVELLER 

of  toast  and  butter.  He  was  a  warm-complexioned  man,  and 
this  smothering  played  the  very  deuce  with  him.  So,  sure 
enough,  in  a  little  while  it  seemed  as  if  a  legion  of  imps  were 
twitching  at  him,  and  all  the  blood  in  his  veins  was  in  fever 
heat. 

He  lay  still,  however,  until  all  the  house  was  quiet,  except- 
ing the  snoring  of  the  Mynheers  from  the  different  chambers; 
who  answered  one  another  in  all  kinds  of  tones  and  cadences, 
like  so  many  bull-frogs  in  a  swamp.  The  quieter  the  house 
became,  the  more  unquiet  became  my  grandfather.  He  waxed 
warmer  and  warmer,  until  at  length  the  bed  became  too  hot  to 
hold  him. 

"May  be  the  maid  had  warmed  it  too  much?"  said  the  cur- 
ious gentleman,  inquiringly. 

"I  rather  think  the  contrary/1  replied  the  Irishman.  "But 
be  that  as  it  may,  it  grew  too  hot  for  my  grandfather. " 

"Faith  there's  no  standing  this  any  longer,"  says  he;  so  he 
jumped  out  of  bed  and  went  strolling  about  the  house. 

"  What  for?"  said  the  inquisitive  gentleman. 

"Why,  to  cool  himself  to  be  sure,"  replied  the  other,  "or 

perhaps  to  find  a  more  comfortable  bed — or  perhaps but  no 

matter  what  he  went  for — he  never  mentioned ;  and  there's  no 
use  in  taking  up  our  time  in  conjecturing." 

Well,  my  grandfather  had  been  for  some  time  absent  from 
his  room,  and  was  returning,  perfectly  cool,  when  just  as  he 
reached  the  door  he  heard  a  strange  noise  within.  He  paused 
and  listened.  It  seemed  as  if  some  one  was  trying  to  hum  a 
tune  in  defiance  of  the  asthma.  He  recollected  the  report  of 
the  room's  being  haunted ;  but  he  was  no  believer  in  ghosts. 
So  he  pushed  the  door  gently  ajar,  and  peeped  in. 

Egad,  gentlemen,  there  was  a  gambol  carrying  on  within 
enough  to  have  astonished  St.  Anthony. 

By  the  light  of  the  fire  he  saw  a  pale  weazen-faced  fellow  in  a 
Jong  flannel  gown  and  a  tall  white  night-cap  with  a  tassel  to  it, 
who  sat  by  the  fire,  with  a  bellows  under  his  arm  by  way  of 
bagpipe,  from  which  he  forced  the  asthmatical  music  that  had 
bothered  my  grandfather.  As  he  played,  too,  he  kept  twitch- 
ing about  with  a  thousand  queer  contortions;  nodding  his 
head  and  bobbing  about  his  tasselled  night-cap. 

My  grandfather  thought  this  very  odd,  and  mighty  presump- 
tuous, and  was  about  to  demand  what  business  he  had  to  play 
his  wind  instruments  in  another  gentleman's  quarters,  when 
a  new  cause  of  astonishment  met  his  eye.     From  the  opposite 


THE  BOLD   DRAQOi  ;)\ 

side  of  the  room  a  long-backed  -legged  chair,  covered 

with  leather,  and  studded  all  over  in  a  eoxcomieal  fashion  with 
little  brass  nails,  got  suddenly  into  motion ;  thrust  out  first  a 
claw  foot,  then  a  crooked  arm,  and  at  length,  making  a  leg, 
slided  gracefully  up  to  an  easy  chair,  of  tarnished  brocade, 
with  a  hole  in  its  bottom,  and  led  it  gallantly  out  in  a  ghostly 
minuet  about  the  floor. 

The  musician  now  played  fiercer  and  fiercer,  and  bobbed  his 
head  and  his  nightcap  about  like  mad.  By  degrees  the  dancing 
mania  seemed  to  seize  upon  all  the  other  pieces  of  furniture. 
The  antique,  long-bodied  chairs  paired  off  in  couples  and  led 
down  a  country  dance ;  a  three-legged  stool  danced  a  hornpipe, 
though  horribly  puzzled  by  its  supernumerary  leg ;  while  the 
amorous  tongs  seized  the  shovel  round  the  waist,  and  whirled 
it  about  the  room  in  a  German  waltz.  In  short,  all  the  move- 
ables got  in  motion,  capering  about ;  pirouetting,  hands  across, 
right  and  left,  like  so  many  devils,  all  except  a  great  clothes- 
.  which  kept  curtseying  and  curtseying,  like  a  dowager, 
in  one  corner,  in  exquisite  time  to  the  music;— being  either  too 
corpulent  to  dance,  or  perhaps  at  a  loss  for  a  partner. 

My  grandfather  concluded  the  latter  to  be  the  reason ;  so, 
being,  like  a  true  Irishman,  devoted  to  the  sex,  and  at  all  times 
ready  for  a  frolic,  he  bounced  into  the  room,  calling  to  the 
musician  to  strike  up  "Paddy  O'Rafferty,"'  capered  up  to  the 
clot  lies-press  and  seized  upon  two  handles  to  lead  her  out : — 
When,  whizz!— the  whole  revel  was  at  an  end.  The  chairs, 
tables,  tongs,  and  shovel  slunk  in  an  instant  as  quietly  into 
their  places  as  if  nothing  had  happened;  and  the  musician 
vanished  up  the  chimney,  leaving  the  bellows  behind  him  in 
his  hurry.  My  grandfather  found  himself  seated  in  the  middle 
of  the  floor,  with  the  clothes-press  sprawling  before  him,  and 
the  two  handles  jerked  off  and  in  his  hands. 

"  Then  after  all,  this  was  a  mere  dream !"  said  the  inquisitive 
gentleman. 

"  The  divil  a  bit  of  a  dream  I"  replied  the  Irishman:  "there 
never  was  a  truer  fact  in  this  world.  Faith,  I  should  have 
liked  to  see  any  man  tell  my  grandfather  it  was  a  dream.*' 

Well,  gentlemen,  as  the  clot!  -  was  a  mighty  heavy 

body,  and  my  grandfather  like  irtieularly  in  rear,  you 

may  easily  suppose  two  such  heavy  bodies  coming  to  the 
ground  would  make  a  bit  of  a  noiso.  Faith,  the  old  mansion 
shook  as  though  it  had  mistaken  it  for  an  earthquake.  The 
whole  garrison   was  alarmed.      The  landlord,  who  slept  just 


32  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

below,  hurried  up  with  a  candle  to  inquire  the  cause,  but  with 
all  his  haste  his  daughter  had  hurried  to  the  scene  of  uproar 
before  him.  The  landlord  was  followed  by  the  landlady,  who 
was  followed  by  the  bouncing  bar-maid,  who  was  followed  by 
the  simpering  chambermaids  all  holding  together,  as  well  as 
they  could,  such  garments  as  they  had  first  lain  hands  on;  but 
all  in  a  terrible  hurry  to  see  what  the  devil  was  to  pay  in  the 
chamber  of  the  bold  dragoon. 

My  grandfather  related  the  marvellous  scene  he  had  wit- 
nessed, and  the  prostrate  clothes-press,  and  the  broken  handles, 
bore  testimony  to  the  fact.  There  was  no  contesting  such 
evidence;  particularly  with  a  lad  of  my  grandfather's  com- 
plexion, who  seemed  able  to  make  good  every  word  either  with 
sword  or  shillelah.  So  the  landlord  scratched  his  head  and 
looked  silly,  as  he  was  apt  to  do  when  puzzled.  The  landlady 
scratched— no,  she  did  not  scratch  her  head, — but  she  knit 
her  brow,  and  did  not  seem  half  pleased  with  the  explanation. 
But  the  landlady's  daughter  corroborated  it  by  recollecting 
that  the  last  person  who  had  dwelt  in  that  chamber  was  a 
famous  juggler  who  had  died  of  St.  Vitus's  dance,  and  no  doubt 
had  infected  all  the  furniture. 

This  set  all  things  to  rights,  particularly  when  the  chamber- 
maids declared  that  they  had  all  witnessed  strange  carryings 
on  in  that  room; — and  as  they  declared  this  "upon  their 
honors,"  there  could  not  remain  a  doubt  upon  the  subject. 

"And  did  your  grandfather  go  to  bed  again  in  that  room?" 
said  the  inquisitive  gentleman. 

"That's  more  than  I  can  tell.  Where  he  passed  the  rest  of 
the  night  was  a  secret  he  never  disclosed.  In  fact,  though  he 
had  Seen  much  service,  lie  was  but  indifferently  acquainted 
with  geography,  and  apt  to  make  blunders  in  his  travels  about 
inns  at  night,  that  it  would  have  puzzled  him  sadly  to  account 
for  in  the  morning." 

"  Was  he  ever  apt  to  walk  in  his  sleep  ?  "  said  the  knowing 
old  gentleman. 

"Never  that  I  heard  of." 


ADVENTURE  or  THE  MYSTERIOUS  PICTURE. 


THE  ADVENTURE  OF  THE  MYSTERIOUS  PICTURE. 

As  one  story  of  the  kind  produces  another,  and  as  all  the 
company  seemed  fully  engrossed  by  the  topic,  and  disposed  to 
bring  their  relatives  and  ancestors  upon  the  scene,  there  is  no 
knowing  how  many  more  ghost  adventures  we  might  have 
heard,  had  not  a  corpulent  old  fox-hunter,  who  had  slept 
soundly  through  the  whole,  now  suddenly  awakened,  with  a 
loud  and  long-drawn  yawn.  The  sound  broke  the  charm ;  the 
ghosts  took  to  flight  as  though  it  had  been  cock-crowing,  and 
there  was  a  universal  move  for  bed. 

"  And  now  for  the  haunted  chamber,"  said  the  Irish  captain, 
taking  his  candle. 

"  Aye,  who's  to  be  the  hero  of  the  night?"  said  the  gentleman 
with  the  ruined  head. 

"That  we  shall  see  in  the  morning,"  said  the  old  gentleman 
with  the  nose:  "whoever  looks  pale  and  grizzly  will  have  seen 
the  ghost." 

>v  Well,  gentlemen,"  said  the  Baronet,  '-there's  many  a  true 
thing  said  in  jest.  In  fact,  one  of  you  will  sleep  in  a  room 
to-night " 

"What— a  haunted  room?  a  haunted  room?  I  claim  the 
adventure— and  I— and  I— and  I,"  cried  a  dozen  guests,  talking 
and  laughing  at  the  same  time. 

"No — no,"  said  mine  host,  "there  is  a  secret  about  one  of 
my  rooms  on  which  I  feel  disposed  to  try  an  experiment.  So, 
gentlemen,  none  of  you  shall  know  who  has  the  haunted 
chamber,  until  circumstances  reveal  it.  I  will  not  even  know 
it  myself,  but  will  leave  it  to  chance  and  the  allotment  of  the 
housekeeper.  At  the  same  time,  if  it  will  be  any  satisfaction 
to  you,  I  will  observe,  for  the  honor  of  my  paternal  mansion, 
that  there's  scarcely  a  chamber  in  it  but  is  well  worthy  of  being 
haunted." 

We  now  separated  for  the  night,  and  each  went  to  his  allotted 
room.  Mine  was  in  one  wing  of  the  building,  and  I  could  not 
but  smile  at  its  resemblance  in  style  to  those  eventful  apart- 
ments described  in  the  tales  of  the  supper  table.  It 
spacious  and  gloomy,  decorated  with  lamp-black  portraits,  a 
bed  of  ancient  damask,  with  a  tester  sufficiently  loft;. 
a  couch  of  state,  and  a  number  of  r  of  old- 

fashioned   furniture.      I  drew  a  great   claw-footed  arm-chair 


34  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

before  the  wide  fire-place ;  stirred  up  the  fire ;  sat  looking  into 
it,  and  musing  upon  the  odd  stories  I  had  heard ;  until,  partly 
overcome  by  the  fatigue  of  the  day's  hunting,  and  partly  by 
the  wine  and  wassail  of  mine  host,  I  fell  asleep  in  my  chair. 

The  uneasiness  of  my  position  made  my  slumber  troubled, 
and  laid  me  at  the  mercy  of  all  kinds  of  wild  and  fearful 
dreams;  now  it  was  that  my  perfidious  dinner  and  supper 
rose  in  rebellion  against  my  peace.  I  was  hag-ridden  by  a  fat 
saddle  of  mutton ;  a  plum  pudding  weighed  like  lead  upon  my 
conscience ;  the  merry  thought  of  a  capon  filled  me  with  horri- 
ble suggestions ;  and  a  devilled  leg  of  a  turkey  stalked  in  all 
kinds  of  diabolical  shapes  through  my  imagination.  In  short, 
I  had  a  violent  fit  of  the  nightmare.  Some  strange  indefinite 
evil  seemed  hanging  over  me  that  I  could  not  avert;  some- 
thing terrible  and  loathsome  oppressed  me  that  I  could  not 
shake  off.  I  was  conscious  of  being  asleep,  and  strove  to  rouse 
myself,  but  every  effort  redoubled  the  evil;  until  gasping, 
struggling,  almost  strangling,  I  suddenly  sprang  bolt  upright 
in  my  chair,  and  awoke*. 

The  light  on  the  mantel-piece  had  burnt  low,  and  the  wick 
was  divided;  there  was  a  great  winding  sheet  made  by  the 
dripping  wax,  on  the  side  towards  me.  The  disordered  taper 
emitted  &  broad  flaring  flame,  and  threw  a  strong  light  on  a 
painting  over  the  fire-place,  which  I  had  not  hitherto  observed. 

It  consisted  merely  of  a  head,  or  rather  a  face,  that  appeared 
to  be  staring  full  upon  me,, and  with  an  expression  that  was 
startling.  It  was  without  a  frame,  and  at.  the  first  glance  I 
could  hardly  persuade  myself  that  if  was  not  a  real  face, 
thrusting  itself  out  of  the  dark  oaken  pannel.  I  sat  in  my 
chair  gazing  at  it,  and  the  more  I  gazed  the  more  it  disquieted 
me.  I  had  never  before  been  affected  in  the  same  way  by  any 
painting.  The  emotions  it  caused  were  strange  ana  indefinite. 
They  were  something  like  what  I  have  heard  ascribed  to  the 
eyes  of  the  basilisk ;  or  like  that  mysterious  mriuence  in  rep- 
tiles termed  fascination.  I  passed  my  hand  over  my  eyes 
several  times,  as  if  seeking  instinctively  to  brush  away  this 
allusion — in  vain— they  instantly  reverted  to  the  picture,  and 
its  chilling,  creeping  influence  over  my  flesh  was  redoubled. 

I  looked  around  the  room  on  other  pictures,  either  to  divert 
my  attention,  or  to  see  whether  the  same  effect  would  t)e  pro- 
duced by  them.  Some  of  them  were  grim  enough  to  produce 
the  effect,  if  the  mere  grimness  of  the  painting  produced  it— 
no  such  thing.     My  eye  passed  over  them  all  with  perfect 


ABYEJSTURE  OP  THE   MYSTERIOUS    PICTURE.        35 

indifference,  but  the  moment  it  reverted  to  this  visage  over  the 
fire-place,  it  was  as  if  an  electric  shock  darted  through  me. 
The  other  pictures  were  dim  and  faded;  but  this  one  protruded 
from  a  plain  black  ground  in  the  strongest  relief,  and  with  won- 
derful truth  of  coloring.  The  expression  was  that  of  agony— 
the  agony  of  intense  bodily  pain;  but  a  menace  scowled  upon 
the  brow,  and  a  few  sprinklings  of  blood  added  to  its  ghast- 
liness.  Yet  it  was  not  all  these  characteristics — it  was  some, 
horror  of  the  mind,  some  inscrutable  antipathy  awakened  by 
this  picture,  which  harrowed  up  my  feelings. 

I  tried  to  persuade  myself  that  this  was  chimerical ;  that  my 
brain  was  confused  by  the  fumes  of  mine  host's  good  cheer, 
and.  in  some  measure,  by  the  odd  stories  about  paintings 
which  had  been  told  at  supper.  I  determined  to  shake  off 
these  vapors  of  the  mind;  rose  from  my  chair,  and  walked 
about  the  room ;  snapped  my  fingers ;  rallied  myself ;  laughed 
aloud.  It  was  a  forced  laugh,  and  the  echo  of  it  in  the  old 
chamber  jarred  upon  my  ear.  I  walked  to  the  window ;  tried 
to  discern  the  landscape  through  the  glass.  It  was  pitch  dark- 
ness, and  howling  storm  without;  and  as  I  heard  the  wind 
moan  among  the  trees,  I  cought  a  reflection  of  this  accursed 
visage  in  the  pane  of  glass,  as  though  it  were  staring  through 
the  window  at  me.     Even  the  reflection  of  it  was  thrilling. 

How  was  this  vile  nervous  fit,  for  such  I  now  persuaded 
myself  it  was,  to  be  conquered  ?  I  determined  to  force  myself 
not  to  look  at  the  painting  but  to  undress  quickly  and  get  into 
bed.  I  be^nn  to  imdress,  but  in  spite  of  every  effort  I  could 
not  keep  myself  from  stealing  a  glance  every  now  and  then  at 
the  picture;  and  a  glance  was  now  sufficient  to  distress  me. 
Even  when  my  back  was  turned  to  it,  the  idea  of  this  strange 
face  behind  me.  peering  over  my  shoulder,  was  insufferable.  I 
threw  off  my  clothes  and  hurried  into  bed ;  but  still  this  visage 
gazed  upon  me.  I  had  a  full  view  of  it  from  my  bed,  and  for 
some  time  could  not  take  my  eyes  from  it.  I  had  grown 
nervous  to  a  dismal  degree. 

I  put  out  the  light,  and  tried  to  force  myself  to  sleep ; — all  in 
vain !  The  fire  gleaming  up  a  little,  threw  an  uncertain  fight 
about  the  room,  leaving,  however,  the  region  of  the  picture  in 
deep  shadow.  What,  thought  I,  if  this  be  the  chamber  about 
which  mine  host  spoke  as  having  a  mystery  reigning  over  it  r— 
I  had  taken  his  words  merely  as  spoken  in  jest ;  might  they 
have  a  real  imports  I  looked  around.  The  faintly-lighted 
apartment  had  all  the  qualifications  requisite  for  a  haunted 


36  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

chamber.  It  began  in  my  infected  imagination  to  assume 
strange  appearances.  The  old  portraits  turned  paler  and 
paler,  and  blacker  and  blacker;  the  streaks  of  light  and 
shadow  thrown  among  the  quaint  old  articles  of  furniture, 
gave  them  singular  shapes  and  characters.  There  was  a  huge 
dark  clothes-press  of  antique  form,  gorgeous  in  brass  and 
lustrous  with  wax,  that  began  to  grow  oppressive  to  me. 

Am  I  then,  thought  I,  indeed,  the  hero  of  the  haunted  room? 
Is  there  really  a  spell  laid  upon  me,  or  is  this  all  some  con- 
trivance of  mine  host,  to  raise  a  laugh  at  my  expense?  The 
idea  of  being  hag-ridden  by  my  own  fancy  all  night,  and  then 
bantered  on  my  haggard  looks  the  next  day  was  intolerable ; 
but  the  very  idea  was  sufficient  to  produce  the  effect,  and  to 
render  me  still  more  nervous.  Pish,  said  I,  it  can  be  no  such 
thing.  How  could  my  worthy  host  imagine  that  I,  or  any 
man  would  be  so  worried  by  a  mere  picture?  It  is  my  own  dis- 
eased imagination  that  torments  me.  I  turned  in  my  bed,  and 
shif ted  from  side  to  side,  to  try  to  fall  asleep ;  but  all  in  vain. 
When  one  cannot  get  asleep  by  lying  quiet,  it  is  seldom  that 
tossing  about  will  effect  the  purpose.  The  fire  gradually  went 
out  and  left  the  room  in  darkness.  Still  I  had  the  idea  of  this 
inexplicable  countenance  gazing  and  keeping  watch  upon  me 
through  the  darkness.  Nay,  what  was  worse,  the  very  dark- 
ness seemed  to  give  it  additional  power,  and  to  multiply  its 
terrors.  It  was  like  having  an  unseen  enemy  hovering  about 
one  in  the  .night.  Instead  'of  having  one  picture  now  to  worry 
me,  I  had  a  hundred.  I  fancied  it  in  every  direction.  And 
there  it  is,  thought  I, — and  there,  and  there,— with  its  horrible 
and  mysterious  expression,  still  gazing  and  gazing  on  me.  No 
—if  I  must  suiTer  this  strange  and  dismal  influence,  it  were 
better  face  a  single  foe,  than  thus  be  haunted  by  a  thousand 
images  of  it. 

Whoever  has  been  in  such  a  state  of  nervous  agitation  must 
know  that  the  longer  it  continues,  the  more  uncontrollable  it 
grows ;  the  very  air  of  the  chamber  seemed  at  length  infected 
by  the  baleful  presence  of  this  picture.  I  fancied  it  hovering 
over  me.  I  almost  felt  the  fearful  visage  from  the  wall  ap- 
proaching my  face,— it  seemed  breathing  upon  me.  This  is 
not  to  be  borne,  said  I,  at  length,  springing  out  of  bed.  I  can 
stand  this  no  longer.  I  shall  only  tumble  and  toss  about  here 
all  night ;  make  a  very  spectre  of  myself,  and  become  the  hero 
of  the  haunted  chamber  in  good  earnest.  .  Whatever  be  the 
consequence,  I'll  quit  this  cursed  room,  and  sook  a  night's  rest 


ADVENTTTRE  OF  THE  MYSTERIOUS  PICTURE.       37 

here.    T  but  laugh  at  me  at  all  events,  and  they'll 

be  sure  to  have  the  laugh  upon  me  if  I  pass  a  sleepless  night 
and  show  them  a  haggard  and  wo-begone  visage  in  the  morn- 
ing. 

All  this  was  half  muttered  to  myself,  as  I  hastily  slipped  on 
my  clothes;  which  having  done,  I  groped  my  way  out  of  the 
and  down-stairs  to  the  drawing-room.  Here,  after  tum- 
bling over  two  or  three  pieces  of  furniture,  I  made  out  to  reach 
a  sofa,  and  stretching  myself  upon  it  determined  to  bivouac 
there  for  the  night. 

The  moment  I  found  myself  out  of  the  neighborhood  of  that 
strange  picture,  it  seemed  as  if  the  charm  were  broken.  All  its 
influence  was  at  an  end.  I  felt  assured  that  it  was  confined  to 
its  own  dreary  chamber,  for  I  had,  with  a  sort  of  instinctive 
caution,  turned  the  key  when  I  closed  the  door.  I  soon  calmed 
down,  therefore,  into  a  state  of  tranquillity;  from  that  into  a 
drowsiness,  and  finally  into  a  deep  sleep ;  out  of  which  I  did  not 
awake,  until  the  house  maid,  with  her  besom  and  her  matin 
song,  came  to  put  the  room  in  order.  She  stared  at  finding  me 
stretched  upon  the  sofa ;  but  I  presume  circumstances  of  the 
kind  were  not  uncommon  after  hunting  dinners,  in  her  master's 
bachelor  establishment ;  for  she  went  on  with  her  song  and  her 
work,  and  took  no  farther  heed  of  me. 

I  had  an  unconquerable  repugnance  to  return  to  my  chamber ; 
so  I  found  my  way  to  the  butlers  quarters,  made  my  toilet  in 
the  best  way  circumstances  would  permit,  and  was  among  the 
first  to  appear  at  the  breakfast  table.  Our  breakfast  was  a 
mtial  fox-hunter's  repast,  and  the  company  were  gener- 
ally assembled  at  it.  When  ample  justice  had  been  done  to  the 
>ftVe.  cold  moats,  and  humming  ale,  for  all  these  were 
furnished  in  abundance,  according  to  the  tastes  of  the  different 
guests,  the  conversation  began  to  break  out,  with  all  the  liveli 
ness  and  freshness  of  morning  mirth. 

"But  who  is  the  hero  of  the  haunted  chamber?— Who  has 
seen  the  ghost  last  night?"  said  the  inquisitive  gentleman,  roll- 
ing his  lobster  eyes  about  the  table. 

The  question  set  every  tongue  in  motion ;  a  vast  deal  of  ban- 

•.  criticising  of  countenances;  of  mutual  accusation  and 

retort  took  place.     Some  had  drunk  deep,  and  some  were  un- 

n,  so  that  there  were  suspicious  faces  enough  in  the  assem- 

I  alone  could  not  enter  with  ease  and  vivacity  into  the 

joke.    I  felt  tongue-tied — embarrassed.     A  recollection  of  what 

I  had  1  felt  the  preceding  night  still  haunted  ray  mind. 


38  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

It  seemed  as  if  the  mysterious  picture  still  held  a  thrall  upon 
me.  I  thought  also  that  our  host's  eye  was  turned  on  me  with 
an  air  of  curiosity.  In  short,  I  was  conscious  that  I  was  the 
hero  of  the  night,  and  felt  as  if  every  one  might  read  it  in  my 
looks. 

The  jokes,  however,  passed  over,  and  no  suspicion  seemed  to 
attach  to  me.  I  Avas  just  congratulating  myself  on  my  escape, 
when  a  servant  came  in,  saying,  that  the  gentleman  who  had 
slept  on  the  sofa  in  the  drawing-room,  had  left  his  watch  under 
one  of  the  pillows.     My  repeater  was  in  his  hand. 

"What!1'  said  the  inquisitive  gentleman,  "did  any  gentle- 
man sleep  on  the  m  \ 

"  Soho !  soho !  a  hare— a  hare !"  cried  the  old  gentleman  with 
the  flexible  nose. 

I  could  not  avoid  acknowledging  the  watch,  and  was  rising 
in  great  confusion,  when  a  boisterous  old  squire  who  sat  beside 
me,  exclaimed,  slapping  me  on  the  shoulder,  "  'Sblood,  lad! 
thou'rt  the  man  as  has  seen  the  ghost  1" 

The  attention  of  the  company  was  immediately  turned  to  me ; 
if  my  face  had  been  pale  the  moment  before,  it  now  glowed 
almost  to  burning.  I  tried  to  laugh,  but  could  only  make  a 
grimace ;  and  found  all  the  muscles  of  my  face  twitching  at 
sixes  and  sevens,  and  totally  out  of  all  control. 

It  takes  but  little  to  raise  a  laugh  among  a  set  of  fox-hunters. 
There  was  a  world  of  merriment  and  joking  at  my  expense ; 
and  as  I  never  relished  a  joke  overmuch  when  it  was  at  my 
own  expense,  I  began  to  feel  >a  little  nettled.  I  tried  to  look 
cool  and  calm  and  to  restrain  my  pique ;  but  the  coolness  and 
calmness  of  a  man  in  a  passion  are  confounded  treacherous. 

Gentlemen,  said  I,  with  a  slight  cocking  of  the  chin,  and  a 
bad  attempt  at  a  smile,  this  is  all  very  pleasant — ha !  ha ! — very 
pleasant — but  I'd  have  you  know  I  am  as  little  superstitious  a3 
any  of  you — ha !  ha !— and  as  to  anything  like  timidity — you  may 
smile,  gentlemen — but  I  trust  there  is  no  one  here  means  to 
insinuate  that. As  to  a  room's  being  haunted,  I  repeat,  gen- 
tlemen— (growing  a  little  warm  at  seeing  a  cursed  grin  breaking 
out  round  me) — as  to  a  room's  being  haunted,  I  have  as  little 
faith  in  such  silly  stories  as  any  one.  But,  since  you  put  the 
matter  home  to  me,  I  will  say  that  I  have  met  with  something 
in  my  room  strange  and  inexplicable  to  me — (a  shout  of  laugh- 
ter). Gentlemen,  I  am  serious — I  know  well  what  I  am  saying 
— I  am  calm,  gentlemen,  (striking  my  fist  upon  the  table) — by 
heaven  I  am  calm.    I  am  neither  trifling,  nor  do  I  wish  to  be 


ADVENTURE  OF  THE  MYSTERIOUS  PICTURE.       39 

trifled  with — (the  laughter  of  the  company  suppressed  with 
ludicrous  attempts  at  gravity).  There  is  a  picture  in  the  room 
in  which  I  was  put  last  night,  that  has  had  an  effect  upon  me 
the  most  singular  and  incomprehensible. 

"A  picture!"  said  the  old  gentleman  with  the  haunted  head. 
"A  picture!"  cried  the  narrator  with  the  waggish  nose.  "A 
picture !  a  picture !"  echoed  several  voices.  Here  there  was  an 
ungovernable  peal  of  laughter. 

I  could  not  contain  myself.  I  started  up  from  my  seat — 
looked  round  on  the  company  with  fiery  indignation — thrust 
both  my  hands  into  my  pockets,  and  strode  up  to  one  of  the 
windows,  as  though  I  would  have  walked  through  it.  I  stopped 
short ;  looked  out  upon  the  landscape  without  distinguishing  a 
feature  of  it ;  and  felt  my  gorge  rising  almost  to  suffocation. 

Mine  host  saw  it  was  time  to  interfere.  He  had  maintained 
an  air  of  gravity  through  the  whole  of  the  scene,  and  now 
stepped  forth  as  if  to  shelter  me  from  the  overwhelming  merri- 
ment of  my  companions. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  he,  "I  dislike  to  spoil  sport,  but  you  have 
had  your  laugh,  and  the  joke  of  the  haunted  chamber  has  been 
enjoyed.  I  must  now  take  the  part  of  my  guest.  I  must  not 
only  vindicate  him  from  your  pleasantrie#s,  but  I  must  recon- 
cile him  to  himself,  for  I  suspect  he  is  a  little  out  of  humor  with 
his  own  feelings ;  and  above  all,  I  must  crave  his  pardon  for 
having  made  him  the  subject  of  a  kind  of  experiment. 

"Yes,  gentlemen,  there  is  something  strange  and  peculiar  in 
the  chamber  to  which  our  friend  was  shown  last  night.  There 
is  a  picture  which  possesses  a  singular  and  mysterious  influence ; 
and  with  which  there  is  connected  a  very  curious  story.  It  is 
a  picture  to  which  I  attach  a  value  from  a  variety  of  circum- 
stances ;  and  though  I  have  often  been  tempted  to  destroy  it 
from  the  odd  and  uncomfortable  sensations  it  produces  in  every 
one  that  beholds  it ;  yet  I  have  never  been  able  to  prevail  upon 
l  nyself  to  make  the  sacrifice.  It  is  a  picture  I  never  like  to  look 
upon  myself ;  and  which  is  held  in  awe  by  all  my  servants.  I 
have,  therefore,  banished  it  to  a  room  but  rarely  used;  and 
should  have  had  it  covered  last  night,  had  not  the  nature  of  our 
conversation,  and  the  whimsical  talk  about  a  haunted  chamber 
tempted  me  to  let  it  i-emain,  by  way  of  experiment,  whether  a 
stranger,  totally  unacquainted  with  its  story,  would  be  affected 
by  it." 

The  words  of  the  Baronet  had  turned  every  thought  into  a 
different  channel;  all  were  anxious  to  hear  the  story  of  the 


40  TALES  OF  A    TEA  TELLER. 

mysterious  picture ;  and  for  myself,  so  strongly  were  my  feel- 
ings  interested,  that  I  forgot  to  feel  piqued  at  the  experiment 
which  my  host  had  made  upon  my  nerves,  and  joined  eagerly 
in  the  general  entreaty. 

As  the  morning  was  stormy,  and  precluded  all  egress,  my 
host  was  glad  of  any  means  of  entertaining  his  company;  so 
drawing  his  arm-chair  beside  the  fire,  he  began — 


THE  ADVENTURE   OF  THE  MYSTERIOUS  STRANGER. 

Many  years  since,  when  I  was  a  young  man,  ,and  had  just 
left  Oxford,  I  was  sent  on  the  grand  tour  to  finish  my  educa- 
tion. I  believe  my  parents  had  tried  in  vain  to  inoculate  me 
with  wisdom ;  so  they  sent  me  to  mingle  Avith  society,  in  hopes 
I  might  take  it  the  natural  way.  Such,  at  least,  appears  to  be 
the  reason  for  which  nine-tenths  of  our  youngsters  are  sent 
abroad. 

In  the  course  of  my  tour  I  remained  some  time  at  Venice. 
The  romantic  character  of  the  place  delighted  me ;  I  was  very 
~?nuch  amused  \>y  the  air  of  adventure  and  intrigue  that  pre- 
vailed in  this  region  of  masks  and  gondolas ;  and  I  was  exceed- 
ingly smitten  by  a  pair  of  languishing  black  eyes,  that  played 
upon  my  heart  from  under  an  Italian  mantle.  So  I  persuaded 
myself  that  I  was  lingering  at  Venice  to  study  men  and  man- 
ners. At  least  I  persuaded  my  friends  so,  and  that  answered 
all  my  purpose.  Indeed,  i  was  a  little  prone  to  be  struck  by 
peculiarities  in  character  and  conduct,  and  my  imagination 
was  so  full  of  romantic  ,'issociations  with  Italy,  that  I  was 
always  on  the  lookout  for  adventure. 

Every  thing  chimed  in  with  such  a  humor  in  this  old  mer- 
maid of  a  city.  My  suite  of  apartments  were  in  a  proud,  mel- 
ancholy palace  on  the  grand  canal,  formerly  the  residence  of  a 
Magninco,  and  sumptuous  with  the  traces  of  decayed  grandeur. 
My  gondolier  was  one  of  the  shrewdest  of  his  class,  active, 
merry,  intelligent,  and,  like  his  brethren,  secret  as  the  grave ; 
that  is  to  say,  secret  to  all  the  world  except  his  master.  I  had 
not  had  him  a  week  before  he  put  me  behind  all  the  curtains  in 
Venice.  I  liked  the  silence  and  mystery  of  the  place,  and  when 
I  sometimes  saw  from  my  window  a  black  gondola  gliding 
mysteriously  along  in  the  dusk  of  the  evening,  with  nothing 


ADVENTURE  OF  THE  MYSTERIOUS  STRANGER.     41 

visible  but  its  little  glimmering  lantern,  I  would  jump  into  my 
own  zendulctto,  and  give  a  signal  for  pursuit.  But  I  am  run- 
ning away  from  my  subject  with  the  recollection  of  youthful 
follies,  said  the  Baronet,  checking  himself;  "let  me  come  to 
the  point. " 

Among  my  familiar  resorts  was  a  Cassino  under  the  Arcades 
on  one  side  of  the  grand  square  of  St.  Mark.  Here  I  used  fre- 
quently to  lounge  and  take  my  ice  on  those  warm  sui 
nights  when  in  Italy  every  body  lives  abroad  until  morning 
I  was  seated  here  one  evening,  when  a  group  of  Italians  took 
seat  at  a  table  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  saloon.  Their  con 
versation  was  gay  and  animated,  and  carried  on  with  Italian 
vivacity  and  gesticulation. 

I  remarked  among  them  one  young  man,  however,  who 
appeared  to  take  no  share,  and  find  no  enjoyment  in  the  con- 
versation ;  though  he  seemed  to  force  himself  to  attend  to  it. 
He  was  tall  and  slender,  and  of  extremely  prepossessing  ap- 
pearance. His  features  were  fine,  though  emaciated.  He 
had  a  profusion  of  black  glossy  hair  that  curled  lightly  about  his 
head,  and  contrasted  with  the  extreme  paleness  of  his  coun- 
tenance. His  brow  was  haggard;  deep  furrows  seemed  to 
have  been  ploughed  into  his  visage  by  care,  not  by  age,  for  he 
was  evidently  in  the  prime  of  youth.  His  eye  was  full  of  ex- 
pression and  fire,  but  wild  and  unsteady.  He  seemed  to  be 
tormented  by  some  strange  fancy  or  apprehension.  In  spite  of 
every  effort  to  fix  his  attention  on  the  conversation  of  his 
companions,  I  noticed  that  every  now  and  then  he  would  turn 
his  head  slowly  round,  give  a  glance  over  his  shoulder,  and 
then  withdraw  it  with  a  sudden  jerk,  as  if  something  painful 
had  met  his  eye.  This  was  repeated  at  intervals  of  about  a 
minute,  and  he  appeared  hardly  to  have  got  over  one  shock, 
before  I  saw  him  slowly  preparing  to  encounter  another. 

After  sitting  some  time  in  the  Cassino,  the  party  paid  for  the 
refreshments  they  had  taken,  and  departed.  The  young  mar- 
was  the  last  to  leave  the  saloon,  and  I  remarked  him  glancing 
behind  him  in  the  same  way.  just  as  he  passed  out  at  the  door. 
I  could  not  resist  the  impulse  to  rise  and  follow  him;  for  I  was 
at  an  age  when  a  romantic  feeling  of  curiosity  is  easily  awak- 
ened. The  party  walked  slowly  down  the  Arcades,  talking  and 
laughing  as  they  went.  They  crossed  the  Piazzetta,  but  paused 
in  the  middle  of  it  to  enjoy  the  scene.  It  was  one  of  those 
light  nights  so  brilliant  and  clear  in  the  pure  atmosphere 
of  Italy.     The  moon-beams  streamed  on  the  tall  tower  of  W» 


42  TALKS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

Mark,  and  lighted  up  the  magnificent  front  and  swelling  domes 
of  the  Cathedral.  The  party  expressed  their  delight  in  anima- 
ted terms.  I  kept  my  eye  upon  the  young  man.  He  alone 
seemed  abstracted  and  self -occupied.  I  noticed  the  same  sin- 
gular, and,  as  it  were,  furtive  glance  over  the  shoulder  that  had 
attracted  my  attention  in  the  Cassino.  The  party  moved  on, 
and  I  followed ;  they  passed  along  the  walks  called  the  Broglio; 
turned  the  corner  of  the  Ducal  palace,  and  getting  into  a  gon-( 
dola,  glided  swiftly  away. 

The  countenance  and  conduct  of  this  young  man  dwelt  upon 
my  mind.  There  was  something  in  his  appearance  that  inter- 
ested me  exceedingly.  I  met  him  a  day  or  two  after  in  a 
gallery  of  paintings.  He  was  evidently  a  connoisseur,  for  he 
always  singled  out  the  most  masterly  productions,  and  the  few 
remarks  drawn  from  him  by  his  companions  showed  an 
intimate  acquaintance  with  the  art.  His  own  taste,  however, 
ran  on  singular  extremes.  On  Salvator  Rosa  in  his  most  sav- 
age and  solitary  scenes;  on  Raphael,  Titian,  and  Corregio  in 
their  softest  delineations  of  female  beauty.  On  these  he  would 
tonally  gaze  with  transient  enthusiasm.  But  this  seemed 
only  a  momentary  forgetfulness.  Still  would  recur  that  cau- 
tious glance  behind,  and  always  quickly  withdrawn,  as  though 
something  terrible  had  met  Ins  view. 

I  encountered  him  frequently  afterwards.  At  the  theatre, 
at  balls,  at  concerts ;  at  the  promenades  in  the  gardens  of  San 
Georgio;  at  the  grotesque  exhibitions  in  the  square  of  St. 
Mark;  among  the  throng  of  merchants  on  the  Exchange  by 
the  Rialto.  He  seemed,  in  fact,  to  seek  crowds;  to  hunt  after 
bustle  and  amusement ;  yet  never  to  take  any  interest  in  either 
the  business  or  gayety  of  the  scene.  Ever  an  air  of  painful 
thought,  of  wretched  abstraction;  and  ever  that  strange  and 
recurring  movement,  of  glancing  fearfully  over  the  shoulder. 
I  did  not  know  at  first  but  this  might  be  caused  by  appre- 
hension of  arrest;  or  perhaps  from  dread  of  assassination. 
But,  if  so,  why  should  he  go  thus  continually  abroad;  why 
expose  himself  at  all  times  and  in  all  places? 

I  became  anxious  to  know  this  stranger.  I  was  drawn  to 
him  by  that  romantic  sympathy  that  sometimes  draws  young 
men  towards  each  other.  His  melancholy  threw  a  charm  about 
him  in  my  eyes,  which  was  no  doubt  heightened  by  the  touch- 
ing expression  of  his  countenance,  and  the  manly  graces  of  his 
person ;  for  manly  beauty  has  its  effect  even  upon  man.  I  had 
an  Englishman's  habitual  diffidence  and  awkwardness  of  ad- 


ADVENTURE  OF  TI1E  MYSTERIOUS  STRANGER.      43 

dress  to  contend  with ;  but  I  subdued  it,  and  from  frequently 
meeting  him  in  the  Cassino,  gradually  edged  myself  into  his 
acquaintance.  I  had  no  reserve  on  his  part  to  contend  with. 
He  seemed  on  the  contrary  to  court  society ;  and  in  fact  to  seek 
anything  rather  than  be  alone. 

When  he  found  I  really  took  an  interest  in  him  he  threw  him- 
self entirely  upon  my  friendship.  He  clung  to  me  like  a  drown- 
ing man.  He  would  walk  with  me  for  hours  up  and  down  the 
place  of  St.  Mark— or  he  would  sit  until  night  was  far  advanced 
in  my  apartment ;  he  took  rooms  under  the  same  roof  with  me ; 
and  his  constant  request  was,  that  I  would  permit  him,  when 
it  did  not  incommode  me,  to  sit  by  me  in  my  saloon.  It  was 
not  that  he  seemed  to  take  a  particular  delight  in  my  conversa- 
tion ;  but  rather  that  he  craved  the  vicinity  of  a  human  being ; 
and  above  all,  of  a  being  that  sympathized  with  him.  ' '  I  have 
often  heard,"  said  he,  "  of  the  sincerity  of  Englishmen — thank 
God  I  have  one  at  length  for  a  friend  I" 

Yet  he  never  seemed  disposed  to  avail  himself  of  my  sympa- 
thy other  than  by  mere  companionship.  He  never  sought  to 
unbosom  himself  to  me ;  there  appeared  to  be  a  settled  corrod- 
ing anguish  in  his  bosom  that  neither  could  be  soothed  ' '  by 
silence  nor  by  speaking."  A  devouring  melancholy  preyed 
upon  his  heart,  and  seemed  to  be  drying  up  the  very  blood  in 
his  veins.  It  was  not  a  soft  melancholy— the  disease  of  the 
affections;  but  a  parching,  withering  agony.  I  could  see  at 
times  that  his  mouth  was  dry  and  feverish ;  he  almost  panted 
rather  than  breathed ;  his  eyes  were  bloodshot ;  his  cheeks  pale 
and  livid;  with  now  and  then  faint  streaks  athwart  them — 
baleful  gleams  of  the  fire  that  was  consuming  his  heart.  As  my 
arm  was  within  his,  I  felt  him  press  it  at  times  with  a  convul- 
sive motion  to  his  side ;  his  hands  would  clinch  themselves  in- 
voluntarily, and  a  kind  of  shudder  would  run  through  his 
frame.  I  reasoned  with  him  about  his  melancholy,  and  sought 
to  draw  from  him  the  cause — he  shrunk  from  all  confiding. 
"Do  not  seek  to  know  it,"  said  he.  "you  could  not  relieve  it 
if  you  knew  it ;  you  would  not  even  seek  to  relieve  it — on  the 
contrary,  I  should  lose  your  sympathy;  and  that,"  said  he, 
pressing  my  hand  convulsively,  "that  I  feel  has  become  too 
dear  to  me  to  risk. " 

I  endeavored  to  awaken  hope  within  him.     He  was  young; 

ad  a  thousand  pleasures  in  store  for  him ;  there  is  a  healthy 

reaction  in  the  youthful  heart;  it  medi  own  wounds— 

"  Come,  come,"  said  I,  "there       no  grief  so  great  that  youth 


44  TALKS  OF  A    TBA  YE II. EH. 

cannot  outgrow  it." — "No!  no!"  said  he,  clinching  his  teeth, 
and  striking  repeatedly,  with  the  energy  of  despair,  upon  his 
bosom — "It  is  here— here— deep-rooted ;  draining  my  heart's 
blood.  It  grows  and  grows,  while  my  heart  withers  and  with- 
ers !  I  have  a  dreadful  monitor  that  gives  me  no  repose— that 
follows  me  step  by  step ;  and  will  follow  me  step  by  step,  until 
it  pushes  me  into  my  grave !" 

As  he  said  this  he  gave  involuntarily  one  of  those  fearful 
glances  over  his  shoulder,  and  shrunk  back  with  more  than 
usual  horror.  I  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  allude  to 
this  movement,  which  I  supposed  to  be  some  mere  malady  of 
the  nerves.  The  moment  I  mentioned  it  his  face  became  crim- 
soned and  convulsed—  he  grasped  me  by  both  hands :  "  For  God?s 
sake,"  exclaimed  he,  with  a  piercing  agony  of  voice — "never 
allude  to  that  again ;  let  us  avoid  this  subject,  my  friend :  you 
cannot  relieve  me,  indeed  you  cannot  relieve  me;  but  you  may 
add  to  the  torments  I  suffer: — at  some  future  day  you  shall 
know  all. " 

I  never  resumed  the  subject ;  for  however  much  my  curiosity 
might  be  aroused,  I  felt  too  true  a  compassion  for  his  suffer- 
ings to  increase  them  by  my  intrusion.  I  sought  various  ways 
to  divert  his  mind,  and  to  arouse  him  from  the  constant  medi- 
tations in  which  he  was  plunged.  He  saw  my  efforts,  and  sec- 
onded them  as  far  as  in  his  power,  for  there  was  nothing  moody 
or  wayward  in  his  nature ;  on  the  contrary,  there  was  some- 
thing frank,  generous,  unassuming,  in  his  whole  deportment. 
All  the  sentiments  that  he  uttered  were  noble  and  lofty.  He 
claimed  no  indulgence;  he  asked  no  toleration.  He  seemed 
content  to  carry  his  load  of  misery  in  silence,  and  only  sought 
to  carry  it  by  my  side.  There  was  a  mute  beseeching  manner 
about  him,  as  if  he  craved  companionship  as  a  charitable  boon; 
and  a  tacit  thankfulness  in  his  looks,  as  if  he  felt  grateful  to 
me  for  not  repulsing  him. 

I  felt  this  melancholy  to  be  infectious.  It  stole  over  my 
spirits;  interfered  with  all  my  gay  pursuits,  and  gradually 
saddened  my  life ;  yet  I  could  not  prevail  upon  myself  to  shake 
off  a  being  who  seemed  to  hang  upon  me  for  support.  In  truth, 
the  generous  traits  of  character  that  beamed  through  all  this 
gloom  had  penetrated  to  my  heart.  His  bounty  was  lavish  and 
open-handed.  His  charity  melting  and  spontaneous.  Not  con- 
fined to  mere  donations,  which  often  humiliate  as  much  as  they 
relieve.  The  tone  of  his  voice,  the  beam  of  his  eye,  enhanced 
every  gift,  and  surprised  the  poor  suppliant  with  that  rarest 


AD\  ENbtJBti  OF  THE  MYSTERIOUS  STUAjNGtiM.     46 

and  sweetest  of  charities,  the  charity  not  merely  of  the  hand, 
but  of  the  heart.  Indeed,  his  liberality  seemed  to  have  some- 
thing in  it  of  self-abasement  and  expiation.  He  humbled  him- 
self, in  a  manner,  before  the  mendicant.  ' '  What  right  have  I 
to  ease  and  affluence,"  would  he  murmur  to  himself,  "when 
innocence  wanders  in  misery  and  rag 

The  Carnival  time  arrived.  I  had  hoped  that  the  gay  scenes 
which  then  presented  themselves  might  have  some  cheering 
effect.  I  mingled  with  him  hi  the  motley  throng  that  crowded 
the  place  of  St.  Mark.  We  frequented  operas,  masquerades, 
balls.  All  in  vain.  The  evil  kept  growing  on  him ;  he  became 
more  and  more  haggard  and  agitated.  Often,  after  we  had  re- 
turned from  one  of  these  scenes  of  revelry,  I  have  entered  his 
room,  and  found  him  lying  on  his  face  on  the  sofa :  his  hands 
clinched  in  his  fine  hair,  and  his  whole  countenance  bearing 
traces  of  the  convulsions  of  Ins  mind. 

The  Carnival  passed  away;  the  season  of  Lent  succeeded; 
Passion  week  arrived.  We  attended  one  evening  a  solemn  ser- 
vice in  one  of  the  churches ;  in  the  course  of  which  a  grand 
piece  of  vocal  and  instrumental  music  was  performed  relating 
to  the  death  of  our  Saviour. 

I  had  remarked  that  he  was  always  powerfully  affected  by 
music ;  on  this  occasion  he  was  so  in  an  extraordinary  degree. 
As  the  peeling  notes  swelled  through  the  lofty  a  isles,  he  seemed 
to  kindle  up  with  fervor.  His  eyes  rolled  upwards,  until  noth- 
ing but  the  whites  were  visible;  his  hands  were  clasped  to- 
gether, until  the  fingers  were  deeply  imprinted  in  the  flesh. 
When  the  music  expressed  the  dying  agony,  his  face  gradually 
sunk  upon  his  knees;  and  at  the  touching  words  resounding 
through  the  church,  ''Jesu  mori"  sobs  burst  from  him  uncon- 
trolled. I  had  never  seen  him  weep  before;  his  had  always 
been  agony  rather  than  sorrow.  I  augured  well  from  the  cir- 
cumstance. I  let  him  weep. on  uninterrupted.  When  the  ser- 
vice was  ended  we  left  the  church.  He  hung  on  my  arm  as  we 
walked  homewards,  with  something  of  a  softer  and  more  sub- 
dued manner;  instead  of  that  nervous  agitation  I  had  been  ac- 
customed to  witness.  He  alluded  to  the  service  we  had  heard. 
"Music,"  said  he,  "  is  indeed  the  voice  of  heaven;  never  before 
have  I  felt  more  impressed  by  the  story  of  the  atonement  of 
our  Saviour.  Yes,  my  friend,"  said  he,  clasping  his  hands  with 
a  kind  of  transport,  ts  I  know  that  my  Redeemer  liveth." 

We  parted  for  the  night.  His  room  was  not  far  from  mine, 
and  I  heard  him  for  some  time  busied  in  it.     I  fell  asleep,  but 


46  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER 

was  awakened  before  daylight.  The  young  man  stood  by  my 
bed-side,  dressed  for  travelling.  He  held  a  sealed  packet  and 
a  large  parcel  in  his  hand,  which  he  laid  on  the  table.  "  Fare- 
well, my  friend, "  said  he,  "I  am  about  to  set  forth  on  a  long 
journey ;  but,  before  I  go,  I  leave  with  you  these  remembrances. 
In  this  packet  you  will  find  the  particulars  of  my  story. 
When  you  read  them,  I  shall  be  far  away ;  do  not  remember 
me  with  aversion.  You  have  been,  indeed,  a  friend  to  me. 
You  have  poured  oil  into  a  broken  heart, — but  you  could  not 
heal  it. — Farewell — let  me  kiss  your  hand — I  am  unworthy  to 
embrace  you."  He  sunk  on  his  knees,  seized  my  hand  in 
despite  of  my  efforts  to  the  contrary,  and  covered  it  with  kisses. 
I  was  so  surprised  by  all  this  scene  that  I  had  not  been  able  to 
say  a  word. 

But  we  shall  meet  again,  said  I,  hastily,  as  I  saw  him  hurry- 
ing towards  the  door. 

' '  Never — never  in  this  world  I"  said  he,  solemnly.  He  sprang 
once  more  to  my  bed-side — seized  my  hand,  pressed  it  to  his 
heart  and  to  his  lips,  and  rushed  out  of  the  room. 

Here  the  Baronet  paused.  He  seemed  lost  in  thought,  and 
sat  looking  upon  the  floor  and  drumming  with  his  fingers  on 
the  arm  of  his  chair. 

''And  did  this  mysterious  personage  return?"  said  the 
inquisitive  gentleman.  "Never!"  replied  the  Baronet,  with  a 
pensive  shake  of  the  head:  "  I  never  saw  him  again."  "  And 
pray  what  has  all  this  to  do  With  the  picture?"  inquired  the  old 
gentleman  with  the  nose — "  True !"  said  the  questioner— "  Is  it 
the  portrait  of  this  crack-brained  Italian?"  "No!"  said  the 
Baronet  drily,  not  half  liking  the  appellation  given  to  his  hero ; 
' '  but  this  picture  was  inclosed  in  the  parcel  he  left  with  me.  The 
sealed  packet  contained  its  explanation.  There  was  a  request 
on  the  outside  that  I  would  not  open  it  until  six  months  had 
elapsed.  I  kept  my  promise,  in  spite  of  my  curiosity.  I  have 
a  translation  of  it  by  me,  and  bad  meant  to  read  it,  by  way  of 
accounting  for  the  mystery  of  the  chamber,  but  I  fear  I  have 
already  detained  the  company  too  long." 

Here  there  was  a  general  wish  expressed  to  have  the  manu- 
script read ;  particularly  on  the  part  of  the  inquisitive  gentle- 
man. So  the  worthy  Baronet  drew  out  a  fairly  written 
manuscript,  and  wir  jag  his  spectacles,  read  aloud  the  following 
story : 


THE  STORY  OF  THE   YOUNG   ITALIAN.  47 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  YOUNG  ITALIAN. 

I  was  born  at  Naples.  My  parents,  though  of  noble  rank, 
were  limited  in  fortune,  or  rather  my  father  was  ostentatious 
beyond  his  means,  and  expended  so  much  in  his  palace,  his 
equipage,  and  his  retinue,  that  he  was  continually  straitened 
in  his  pecuniary  circumstances.  I  was  a  younger  son,  and 
looked  upon  with  indifference  by  my  father,  who,  from  a  prin- 
ciple of  family  pride,  wished  to  leave  all  his  property  to  my 
elder  brother. 

I  showed,  when  quite  a  child,  an  extreme  sensibility.  Every 
thing  affected  me  violently.  While  yet  an  infant  in  my 
mother's  arms,  and  before  I  had  learnt  to  talk,  I  could  be 
wrought  upon  to  a  wonderful  degree  of  anguish  or  delight  by 
the  power  of  music.  As  I  grew  older  my  feelings  remained 
equally  acute,  and  I  was  easily  transported  into  paroxysms  of 
pleasure  or  rage.  It  was  the  amusement  of  my  relatives  and 
of  the  domestics  to  play  upon  this  irritable  temperament.  I 
was  moved  to  tears,  tickled  to  laughter,  provoked  to  fury. 
for  the  entertainment  of  company,  who  were  amused  by 
such  a  tempest  of  mighty  passion  in  a  pigmy  frame.  They 
little  thought,  or  perhaps  little  heeded  the  dangerous  sensibili- 
ties they  were  fostering.  I  thus  became  a  little  creature  of 
passion,  before  reason  was  developed.  In  a  short  time  I  grew 
too  old  to  be  a  plaything,  and  then  I  became  a  torment.  The 
tricks  and  passions  I  had  been  teased  into  became  irksome,  and 
I  was  disliked  by  my  teachers  for  the  very  lessons  they  had 
taught  me. 

My  mother  died ;  and  my  power  as  a  spoiled  child  was  at 
an  end.  There  was  no  longer  any  necessity  to  humor  or 
tolerate  me,  for  there  was  nothing  to  be  gained  by  it,  as  I  was 
no  favorite  of  my  father.  I  therefore  experienced  the  fate  of  a 
spoiled  child  in  such  situation,  and  was  neglected  or  noticed 
only  to  be  crossed  and  contradicted.  Such  was  the  early  treat 
ment  of  a  heart,  which,  if  I  am  .judge  of  it  at  all,  was  naturally 
disposed  to  the  extremes  of  tenderness  and  affection. 

My  father,  as  I  have  already  said,  never  liked  mo- in  fact. 
he  never  understood  me;  he  looked  upon  me  as  wilful  and 
wayward,  as  deficient  in  natural  affection:— it  was  the  stateli- 
ness  of  his  own  manner ;  the  loftiness  and  grandeur  of  his  own 
look  that  had  repelled  me  from  his  arms.    I  always  pictured 


48  TALES  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

ham  to  myself  as  I  had  seen  him  clad  in  his  senatorial  robes, 
rustling  with  pomp  and  pride.  The  magnificence  of  his  person 
had  daunted  my  strong  imagination.  I  could  never  approach 
him  with  the  confiding  affection  of  a  child. 

My  father's  feelings  were  wrapped  up  in  my  elder  brother. 
He  was  to  be  the  inheritor  of  the  family  title  and  the  family 
dignity,  and  every  thing  was  sacrificed  to  him— I,  as  well  as 
every  thing  else.  It  was  determined  to  devote  me  to  the  church, 
that  so  my  humors  and  myself  might  be  removed  out  of  the 
way,  either  of  tasking  my  father's  time  and  trouble,  or  inter- 
fering with  the  interests  of  my  brother.  At  an  early  age, 
therefore,  before  my  mind  had  dawned  upon  the  world  and  its 
delights,  or  known  any  thing  of  it  beyond  the  precincts  of  my 
father's  palace,  I  was  sent  to  a  convent,  the  superior  of  which 
was  my  uncle,  and  was  confided  entirely  to  his  care. 

My  uncle  was  a  man  totally  estranged  from  the  world ;  he 
had  never  relished,  for  he  had  never  tasted  its  pleasures ;  and 
he  deemed  rigid  self-denial  as  the  great  basis  of  Christian  virtue. 
He  considered  every  one's  temperament  like  his  own ;  or  at 
least  he  made  them  conform  to  it.  His  character  and  habits 
had  an  influence  over  the  fraternity  of  which  he  was  superior. 
A  more  gloomy,  saturnine  set  of  beings  were  never  assembled 
together.  The  convent,  too,  was  calculated  to  awaken  sad  and 
solitary  thoughts.  It  was  situated  in  a  gloomy  gorge  of  those 
mountains  away  south  of  Vesuvius.  All  distant  views  were 
shut  out  by  sterile  volcanic  heights.  A  mountain  stream  raved 
beneath  its  walls,  and  eagles  screamed  about  its  turrets. 

I  had  been  sent  to  this  place  at  so  tender  an  age  as  soon  to 
lose  all  distinct  recollection  of  the  scenes  I  had  left  behind. 
As  my  mind  expanded,  therefore,  it  formed  its  idea  of  the 
world  from  the  convent  and  its  vicinity,  and  a  dreary  world  it 
appeared  to  me.  An  early  tinge  of  melancholy  was  thus 
infused  into  my  character ;  and  the  dismal  stories  of  the  monks, 
about  devils  and  evil  spirits,  with  which  they  affrighted  my 
young  imagination,  gave  me  a  tendency  to  superstition, 
which  I  could  never  effectually  shake  off.  They  took  the  same 
delight  to  work  upon  my  ardent  feelings  that  had  been  so  mis- 
chievously exercised  by  my  father's  household. 

I  can  recollect  the  horrors  with  which  they  fed  my  heated 
fancy  during  an  eruption  of  Vesuvius.  We  were  distant  from 
that  volcano,  with  mountains  between  us;  but  its  convulsive 
throes  shook  the  solid  foundations  of  nature.  Earthquakes 
threatened  to  topple  down  our  convent  towers.    A  lurid,  bale- 


Till-:  STORY   OF   THE    YOUNG    ITALIAN.  49 

fill  light  hung  in  the  heavens  at  night,  and  shower:-;  of  ashes, 
borne  by  the  wind,  fell  in  our  narrow  valley.  The  m 
talked  of  the  earth  being  honey-combed  beneath  us ;  of  streams 
of  molten  lava  raging  through  its  veins;  of  caverns  of  sulphur- 
ous flames  roaring  in  the  centre,  the  abodes  of  demons  and  the 
damned ;  of  fiery  gulfs  ready  to  yawn  beneath  our  feet.  All 
these  tales  were  told  to  the  doleful  accompaniment  of  the 
mountain's  thunders,  whose  low  bellowing  made  the  walls  of 
our  convent  vibrate. 

One  of  the  monks  had  been  a  painter,  but  had  retired  from 
the  world,  and  embraced  this  dismal  life  in  expiation  of  some 
crime.  He  was  a  melancholy  man,  who  pursued  his  art  in  the 
solitude  of  his  cell,  but  made  it  a  source  of  penance  to  him. 
His  employment  was  to  portray,  either  on  canvas  or  in  waxen 
models,  the  human  face  and  human  form,  in  the  agonies  of 
death  and  in  all  the  stages  of  dissolution  and  decay.  The  fear- 
mi  mysteries  of  the  charnel  house  were  unfolded  in  his  labors— 

me  loathsome  banquet  of  the  beetle  and  the  worm. 1  turn 

with  shuddering  even  from  the  recollection  of  his  works.  Yet, 
at  that  time,  nry  strong,  but  ill-directed  imagination  seized 
with  ardor  upon  his  instructions  in  his  art.  Any  thing  was  a 
variety  from  the  dry  studies  and  monotonous  duties  of  the 
cloister.  In  a  little  while  I  became  expert  with  my  pencil,  and 
my  gloomy  productions  were  thought  worthy  of  decorating 
some  of  the  altars  of  the  chapel. 

In  tins  dismal  way  was  a  creature  of  feeling  and  fancy 
brought  up.  Every  thing  genial  and  amiable  in  my  nature  was 
repressed  and  nothing  brought  out  but  what  was  unprofitable 
and  ungracious.  I  was  ardent  in  my  temperament;  quick, 
mercurial,  impetuous,  formed  to  be  a  creature  all  love 
adoration;  but  a  leaden  hand  was  laid  on  all  my  finer  qualities. 
I  was  taught  nothing  but  fear  and  hatred.  I  hated  my  uncle, 
I  hated  the  monks,  I  hated  the  convent  in  which  I  was  im- 
mured. I  hated  the  world,  and  I  almost  hated  myself,  tor 
being,  as  I  supposed,  so  hating  and  hateful  an  animal. 

When  I  had  nearly  attained   the    age  of   sixteen,   I 
suffered,  on  one  occasion,  to  accompany  one  of  the  brethren 
on  a  mission  to  a  distant  part  of  the  country.    We  soon  lef 
hind  us  the  gloomy  valley  in  which  I  had  been  pent  up  for  so 
many  years,  and  after  a  short  journey  among  the  moun' 
emerged   upon  the  voluptuous  landscape  that  itself 

about  the  Bay  of  Naples.     Heavens:  how  I  d  was  I, 

when  I  stretched  my  gaze  over  a  vast  reach  of  delicious  sunny 


50  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

country,  gay  with  groves  and  vineyards;  with  Vesuvius  rear- 
ing its  forked  summit  to  my  riglit;  the  blue  Mediterranean  to 
my  left,  with  its  enchanting  coast,  studded  with  shining  towns 
and  sumptuous  villas;  and  Naples,  my  native  Naples,  gleam- 
ing far,  far  in  the  distance. 

Good  God !  was  this  the  lovely  world  from  which  I  had  been 
excluded !  I  had  reached  that  age  when  the  sensibilities  are 
in  all  their  bloom  and  freshness.  Mine  had  been  checked  and 
chilled.  They  now  burst  forth  with  the  suddenness  of  a 
retarded  spring.  My  heart,  hitherto  unnaturally  shrunk  up, 
expanded  into  a  riot  of  vague,  but  delicious  emotions.  The 
beauty  of  nature  intoxicated,  bewildered  me.  The  song  of  the 
peasants ;  their  cheerful  looks ;  their  happy  avocations ;  the  pic- 
turesque gayety  of  their  dresses;  their  rustic  music;  their 
dances ;  all  broke  upon  me  like  witchcraft.  My  soul  responded 
to  the  music ;  my  heart  danced  in  my  bosom.  All  the  men 
appeared  amiable,  all  the  women  lovely. 

I  returned  to  the  convent,  that  is  to  say,  my  body  returned 
but  my  heart  and  soul  never  entered  there  again.  I  could  not 
forget  this  glimpse  of  a  beautiful  and  a  happy  world ;  a  world 
so  suited  to  my  natural  character.  I  had  felt  so  happy  while 
in  it ;  so  different  a  being  from  what  I  felt  myself  while  in  the 
convent — that  tomb  of  the  living.  I  contrasted  the  counte- 
nances of  the  beings  I  had  seen,  full  of  fire  and  freshness  and 
enjoyment,  with  the  pallid,'  leaden,  lack-lustre  visages  of  the 
monks ;  the  music  of  the  dance,  with  the  droning  chant  of  the 
chapel.  I  had  before  found  the  exercises  of  the  cloister  weari- 
some ;  they  now  became  intolerable.  The  dull  round  of  duties 
wore  away  my  spirit ;  my  nerves  became  irritated  by  the  fret- 
ful tinkling  of  the  convent  bell;  evermore  dinging  among 
the  mountain  echoes ;  evermore  calling  me  from  my  repose  at 
night,  my  pencil  by  day,  to  attend  to  some  tedious  and 
mechanical  ceremony  of  devotion. 

I  was  not  of  a  nature  to  meditate  long,  without  putting  my 
thoughts  into  action.  My  spirit  had  been  suddenly  aroused, 
and  was  now  all  awake  within  me.  I  watched  my  opportunity, 
fled  from  the  convent,  and  made  my  way  on  foot  to  Naples. 
As  I  entered  its  gay  and  crowded  streets,  and  beheld  the 
variety  and  stir  of  life  around  me,  the  luxury  of  palaces,  the 
splendor  of  equipages,  and  the  pantomimic  animation  of  the 
motley  populace,  I  seemed  as  if  awakened  to  a  world  of 
enchantment,  and  solemnly  vowed  that  nothing  should  force 
me  back  to  the  monotony  of  the  cloister. 


TEE  STORY  OF  THE  YOUXG  ITALIAN.  51 

I  had  to  inquire  my  way  to  my  father's  palace,  for  I  had 
been  so  young  on  leaving  it,  that  I  knew  not  its  situation.  I 
found  some  difficulty  in  getting  admitted  to  my  father's  pres- 
ence, for  the  domestics  scarcely  knew  that  there  was  such  a 
being  as  myself  in  existence,  and  my  monastic  dress  did  not 
operate  in  my  favor.  Even  my  father  entertained  no  recollec- 
tion of  my  person.  I  told  him  my  name,  threw  myself  at  his 
feet,  implored  his  forgiveness,  and  entreated  that  I  might  not 
be  sent  back  to  the  convent. 

He  received  me  with  the  condescension  of  a  patron  rather 
than  the  kindness  of  a  parent.  He  listened  patiently,  but 
coldly,  to  my  tale  of  monastic  grievances  and  disgusts,  and 
promised  to  think  what  else  could  be  done  for  me.  This  cold- 
ness blighted  and  drove  back  all  the  frank  affection  of  my 
nature  that  was  ready  to  spring  forth  at  the  least  warmth  of 
parental  kindness.  All  my  early  feelings  towards  my  father 
revived ;  I  again  looked  up  to  him  as  the  stately  magnificent 
being  that  had  daunted  my  childish  imagination,  and  felt  as  if 
I  had  no  pretensions  to  his  sympathies.  My  brother  engrossed 
all  his  care  and  love ;  he  inherited  Iris  nature,  and  carried  him- 
self towards  me  with  a  protecting  rather  than  a  fraternal  air. 
It  wounded  my  pride,  which  was  great.  I  could  brook  conde- 
scension from  my  father,  for  I  looked  up  to  him  with  awe  as  a 
superior  being,  but  I  could  not  brook  patronage  from  a  brother, 
who,  I  felt,  was  intellectually  my  inferior.  The  servants  per- 
ceived that  I  was  an  unwelcome  intruder  in  the  paternal  man 
sion,  and,  menial- like,  they  treated  me  with  neglect.  Thus 
baffled  at  every  point ;  my  affections  outraged  wherever  they 
would  attach  themselves,  I  became  sullen,  silent,  and  despon- 
dent. My  feelings  driven  back  upon  myself,  entered  and 
preyed  upon  my  own  heart.  I  remained  for  some  days  an 
unwelcome  guest  rather  than  a  restored  son  in  my  father's 
'.  I  was  doomed  never  to  be  properly  known  there.  I 
was  made  by  wrong  treatment,  strange  even  to  myself;  and 
they  judged  of  me  from  my  strangeness. 

I  was  startled  one  day  at  the  sight  of  one  of  the  monks  of  my 
convent,  gliding  out  of  my  father's  room.  He  saw  me,  but 
pretended  not  to  notice  me ;  and  this  very  hypocrisy  made  me 
suspect  something.  I  had  become  sore  and  susceptible  in  my 
feelings ;  every  tiling  inflicted  a  wound  on  them.  In  this  state 
of  mind  I  was  treated  with  marked  disrespect  by  a  pampered 
minion,  the  favorite  servant  of  my  father.     All  the  pride  and 


TALES  OF  A   TRA  VELLER. 

passion  of  my  nature  rose  in  an  instant,  and  I  struck  him  to 
the  earth. 

My  father  was  passing  by;  he  stopped  not  to  inquire  the 
reason,  nor  indeed  could  he  read  the  long  course  of  mental  suf- 
ferings which  were  the  real  cause.  He  rebuked  me  with  anger 
and  scorn ;  he  summoned  all  the  haughtiness  of  his  nature,  and 
grandeur  of  his  look,  to  give  weight  to  the  contumely  with 
which  he  treated  me.  I  felt  I  had  not  deserved  it— I  felt  that  I 
was  not  appreciated — I  felt  that  I  had  that  within  me  which 
merited  better  treatment;  my  heart  swelled  against  a  father's 
injustice.  I  broke  through  my  habitual  awe  of  him.  I  replied 
to  him  with  impatience ;  my  hot  spirit  flushed  in  my  cheek  and 
kindled  in  my  eye,  but  my  sensitive  heart  swelled  as  quickly, 
and  before  I  had  half  vented  my  passion  I  felt  it  suffocated  and 
quenched  in  my  tears.  My  father  was  astonished  and  incensed 
at  this  turning  of  the  worm,  and  ordered  me  to  my  chamber. 
I  retired  in  silence,  choking  with  contending  emotions. 

I  had  not  been  long  there  when  I  overheard  voices  in  an  ad- 
joining apartment.  It  was  a  consultation  between  my  father 
and  the  monk,  about  the  means  of  getting  me  back  quietly  to 
the  convent.  My  resolution  was  taken.  I  had  no  longer  a 
home  nor  a  father.  That  very  night  I  left  the  paternal  roof. 
I  got  on  board  a  vessel  about  making  sail  from  the  harbor,  and 
abandoned  myself  to  the  wide  world.  No  matter  to  what  port 
she  steered ;  any  part  of  so  beautiful  a  world  was  better  than 
my  convent.  No  matter  where  I  was  cast  by  fortune;  any 
place  would  be  more  a  home  to  me  than  the  home  I  had  left 
behind.  The  vessel  was  bound  to  Genoa.  We  arrived  there 
after  a  voyage  of  a  few  days. 

As  I  entered  the  harbor,  between  the  moles  which  embrace  it, 
and  beheld  the  amphitheatre  of  palaces  and  churches  and 
splendid  gardens,  rising  one  above  another,  I  felt  at  once  its 
title  to  the  appellation  of  Genoa  the  Superb.  I  landed  on  the 
mole  an  utter  stranger,  without  knowing  what  to  do,  or  whither 
to  direct  my  steps.  No  matter ;  I  was  released  from  the  thral- 
dom of  the  convent  and  the  humiliations  of  home!  When  I 
traversed  the  Strada  Balbi  and  the  Strada  Nuova,  those  streets 
of  palaces,  and  gazed  at  the  wonders  of  architecture  around 
me ;  when  I  wandered  at  close  of  day,  amid  a  gay  throng  of 
the  brilliant  and  the  beautiful,  through  the  green  alleys  of  the 
Aqua  Verdi,  or  among  the  colonnades  and  terraces  of  the  mag- 
nificent Doria  Gardens,  I  thought  it  impossible  to  be  ever  other- 
wise than  happy  in  Genoa. 


THE  STORY  OF  THE   YOUNG   ITALIAN.  53 

A  few  days  sufficed  to  show  me  niy  mistake.  My  scanty 
purse  was  exhausted,  and  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  ex- 
perienced the  sordid  distress  of  penury.  I  had  never  known 
the  want  of  money,  and  had  never  adverted  to  the  possibility 
of  such  an  evil.  I  was  ignorant  of  the  world  and  all  its  ways , 
and  when  first  the  idea  of  destitution  came  over  my  mind  its 
effect  was  withering.  I  was  wandering  pensively  through  the 
streets  which  no  longer  delighted  my  eyes,  when  chance  led  my 
Bteps  into  the  maguificent  church  of  the  Annunciata. 

A  celebrated  painter  of  the  day  was  at  that  moment  superin- 
tending the  placing  of  one  of  his  pictures  over  an  altar.  The 
proficiency  which  I  had  acquired  in  his  art  during  my  residence 
in  the  convent  had  made  me  an  enthusiastic  amateur.  I  was 
struck,  at  the  first  glance,  with  the  painting.  It  was  the  face 
of  a  Madonna.  So  innocent,  so  lovely,  such  a  divine  expression 
of  maternal  tenderness !  I  lost  for  the  moment  all  recollection 
of  nryself  in  the  enthusiasm  of  my  art.  I  clasped  my  hands 
together,  and  uttered  an  ejaculation  of  delight.  The  painter 
perceived  my  emotion.  He  was  flattered  and  gratified  by  it. 
My  air  and  manner  pleased  him,  and  he  accosted  me.  I  felt  too 
much  the  want  of  friendship  to  repel  the  advances  of  a  stranger, 
and  there  was  something  in  this  one  so  benevolent  and  winning 
that  in  a  moment  he  gained  my  confidence. 

I  told  him  my  story  and  my  situation,  concealing  only  my 
name  and  rank.  He  apj  reared  strongly  interested  by  my  recital ; 
invited  me  to  his  house,  and  from  that  time  I  became  his 

ivorite  pupil.  He  thought  he  perceived  in  me  extraordinary 
talents  for  the  art,  and  his  encomiums  awakened  all  my  ardor. 
What  a  blissful  period  of  my  existence  was  it  that  I  passed  be- 
neath his  roof.     Another  being  seemed  created  within  me,  or 

ither,  all  that  was  amiable  and  excellent  was  drawn  out.  I 
was  as  recluse  as  ever  I  had  been  at  the  convent,  but  how  dif- 
ferent was  my  seclusion.  My  time  was  spent  in  storing  my 
mind  with  lofty  and  poetical  ideas ;  in  meditating  on  all  that 
was  striking  and  noble  in  history  or  fiction ;  in  studying  and 
tracing  all  that  was  sublime  and  beautiful  in  nature.  I  was 
always  a  visionnry.  imaginative  being,  but  now  my  reveries 
and  imaginings  all  elevated  me  to  rapture. 

I  looked  up  to  my  master  as  to  a  benevolent  genius  that  had 
opened  to  me  a  region  of  enchantment.  I  became  devotedly 
attached  to  him.  He  was  not  a  native  of  Genoa,  but  had  been 
drawn  thither  by  the  solicitation  of  several  of  the  nobility,  and 
had  resided  there  but  a  few  years,  for  the  completion  of  cer 


54  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

Sain  works  he  had  undertaken.  His  health  was  delicate,  and 
he  had  to  confide  much  of  the  filling  up  of  his  designs  to  the 
pencils  of  his  scholars.  He  considered  me  as  particularly 
happy  in  delineating  the  human  countenance ;  in  seizing  upon 
characteristic,  though  fleeting  expressions  and  fixing  them 
powerfully  upon  my  canvas.  I  was  employed  continually, 
therefore,  in  sketching  faces,  and  often  when  some  particular 
grace  or  beauty  or  expression  was  wanted  in  a  countenance,  it 
was  entrusted  to  my  pencil.  My  benefactor  was  fond  of  bringing 
me  forward ;  and  partly,  perhaps,  through  my  actual  skill,  and 
partly  by  his  partial  praises,  I  began  to  be  noted  for  the  expres- 
sion of  my  countenances. 

Among  the  various  works  which  he  had  undertaken,  was  an 
historical  piece  for  one  of  the  palaces  of  Genoa,  in  which  were 
to  be  introduced  the  likenesses  of  several  of  the  family.  Among 
these  was  one  entrusted  to  my  pencil.  It  was  that  of  a  young 
girl,  who  as  yet  was  in  a  convent  for  her  education.  She  came 
out  for  the  purpose  of  sitting  for  the  picture.  I  first  saw  her 
in  an  apartment  of  one  of  the  sumptuous  palaces  of  Genoa. 
She  stood  before  a  casement  that  looked  out  upon  the  bay,  a 
stream  of  vernal  sunshine  fell  upon  her,  and  shed  a  kind  of 
glory  round  her  as  it  fit  up  the  rich  crimson  chamber.  She  was 
but  sixteen  years  of  age — and  oh,  how  lovely !  The  scene  broke 
upon  me  like  a  mere  vision  of  spring  and  youth  and  beauty.  I 
could  have  fallen  down  and  worshipped  her.  She  was  like  one 
of  those  fictions  of  poets  and  painters,  when  they  would  express 
the  beau  ideal  that  haunts  their  minds  with  shapes  of  indescrib- 
able perfection. 

I  was  permitted  to  sketch  her  countenance  in  various  posi- 
tions, and  I  fondly  protracted  the  study  that  was  undoing  me. 
The  more  I  gazed  on  her  the  more  I  became  enamoured; 
there  was  something  almost  painful  in  my  intense  admiration. 
I  was  but  nineteen  years  of  age ;  shy,  diffident,  and  inexperi- 
enced. I  was  treated  with  attention  and  encouragement,  for 
my  youth  and  my  enthusiasm  in  my  art  had  won  favor  for 
me;  and  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  there  was  something 
in  my  air  and  manner  that  inspired  interest  and  respect. 
Still  the  kindness  with  which  I  was  treated  could  not  dispel  the 
embarrassment  into  which  my  own  imagination  threw  me 
when  in  presence  of  this  lovely  being.  It  elevated  her  into 
something  almost  more  than  mortal.  She  seemed  too  exquisite 
for  earthly  use ;  too  delicate  and  exalted  for  human  attainment. 
As  I  sat  tracing  her  charms  on  my  canvas,  with  my  eyes 


THE  STORY  OF  TEE   YOUNG  ITALIAN.  55 

occasionally  riveted  on  her  features,  I  drank  in  delicious  poison 
that  made  me  giddy.  My  heart  alternately  gushed  with  ten- 
derness, and  ached  with  despair.  Now  I  became  more  than 
ever  sensible  of  the  violent  fires  that  had  lain  dormant  at  the 
b<  >ttom  of  my  soul.  You  who  are  born  in  a  more  temperate 
climate  and  under  a  cooler  sky,  have  little  idea  of  the  violence 
of  passion  in  our  southern  bosoms. 

A  few  days  finished  my  task ;  Bianca  returned  to  her  con- 
vent, but  her  image  remained  indelibly  impressed  upon  my 
heart.  It  dwelt  on  my  imagination ;  it  became  my  pervading 
idea  of  beauty.  It  had  an  effect  even  upon  my  pencil;  I 
became  noted  for  my  felicity  in  depicting  female  loveliness ;  it 
was  but  because  I  multiplied  the  image  of  Bianca.  I  soothed, 
and  yet  fed  my  fancy,  by  introducing  her  in  all  the  produc- 
tions of  my  master.  I  have  stood  with  delight  in  one  of  the 
chapels  of  the  Annunciata,  and  heard  the  crowd  extol  the 
seraphic  beauty  of  a  saint  which  I  had  painted ;  I  have  seen 
them  bow  down  in  adoration  before  the  painting:  they  were 
bowing  before  the  loveliness  of  Bianca. 

I  existed  in  this  kind  of  dream,  I  might  almost  say 
delirium,  for  upwards  of  a  year.  Such  is  the  tenacity  of  my 
imagination  that  the  image  which  was  formed  in  it  continued 
in  all  its  power  and  freshness.  Indeed,  I  was  a  solitary,  medi- 
tative being,  much  given  to  reverie,  and  apt  to  foster  ideas 
which  had  once  taken  strong  possession  of  me.  I  was  roused 
from  this  fond,  melancholy,  delicious  dream  by  the  death  of 
my  worthy  benefactor.  I  cannot  describe  the  pangs  his  death 
occasioned  me.  It  left  me  alone  and  almost  broken-hearted. 
He  bequeathed  to  me  his  little  property ;  which,  from  the  liber- 
ality of  his  disposition  and  his  expensive  style  of  living,  was 
indeed  but  small ;  and  he  most  particularly  recommended  me, 
in  dyirg,  to  the  protection  of  a  nobleman  who  had  been  his 
patron. 

The  latter  was  a  man  who  passed  for  munificent.  He  Was  a 
lover  and  an  encourager  of  the  arts,  and  evidently  wished  to 
be  thought  so.  He  fancied  he  saw  in  me  indications  of  future 
excellence ;  my  pencil  had  already  attracted  attention ;  he  took 
me  at  once  under  his  protection;  seeing  that  I  was  over- 
whelmed with  grief,  and  incapable  of  exerting  myself  in  the 
mansion  of  my  late  benefactor,  he  invited  me  to  sojourn  for  a 
time  in  a  villa  which  he  possessed  on  the  border  of  the  sea,  in 
the  picturesque  neighborhood  of  Sestri  de  Ponenti. 

I  found  at  the  villa  the  Count's  only  son,  Filippo:  he  was 


56  TALES  OF  A    TRA  YKLLER. 

nearly  of  my  age,  prepossessing  in  his  appearance,  and  fascinat- 
ing in  his  manners ;  he  attached  himself  to  me,  and  seemed  to 
court  my  good  opinion.  I  thought  there  was  something  of 
profession  in  his  kindness,  and  of  caprice  in  his  disposition,- 
but  I  had  nothing  else  near  me  to  attach  myself  to,  and  my 
heart  felt  the  need  of  something  to  repose  itself  upon.  His 
education  had  been  neglected;  he  looked  upon  me  as  his 
superior  in  mental  powers  and  acquirements,  and  tacitly 
acknowledged  my  superiority.  I  felt  that  I  was  his  equal  in 
birth,  and  that  gave  an  independence  to  my  manner  which 
had  its  effect.  The  caprice  and  tyranny  I  saw  sometimes  exer- 
cised on  others,  over  whom  he  had  power,  were  never  mani- 
fested towards  me.  We  became  intimate  friends,  and  frequent 
companions.  Still  I  loved  to  be  alone,  and  to  indulge  in  the 
reveries  of  my  own  imagination,  among  the  beautiful  scenery 
by  which  I  was  surrounded. 

The  villa  stood  in  the  midst  of  ornamented  grounds,  finely 
decorated  with  statues  and  fountains,  and  laid  out  into  groves 
and  alleys  and  shady  bowers.  It  commanded  a  wide  view  of 
the  Mediterranean,  and  the  picturesque  Ligurian  coast. 
Every  thing  was  assembled  here  that  could  gratif y  the  taste  or 
agreeably  occupy  the  mind.  Soothed  by  the  tranquillity  of 
this  elegant  retreat,  the  turbulence  of  my  feelings  gradually 
subsided,  and,  blending  with  the  romantic  spell  that  still 
reigned  over  my  imagination,  produced  a  soft  voluptuous 
melancholy. 

I  had  not  been  long  under  the  roof  of  the  Count,  when  our 
solitude  was  enlivened  by  another  inhabitant.  It  was  a 
daughter  of  a  relation  of  the  Count,  who  had  lately  died  in 
reduced  circumstances,  bequeathing  this  only  child  to  his  pro- 
tection. I  had  heard  much  of  her  beauty  from  Filippo,  but  my 
fancy  had  become  so  engrossed  by  one  idea  of  beauty  as  not  to 
admit  of  any  other.  We  were  in  the  central  saloon  of  the 
villa  when  she  arrived.  She  was  still  in  mourning,  and 
approached,  leaning  on  the  Count's  arm.  As  they  ascended 
the  marble  portico,  I  was  struck  by  the  elegance  of  her  figure 
and  movement,  by  the  grace  with  which  the  mezzaro,  the 
bewitching  veil  of  Genoa,  was  folded  about  her  slender  form. 
They  entered.  Heavens!  Avhat  was  my  surprise  when  I 
beheld  Bianca  before  me.  It  was  herself :  pale  with  grief ;  but 
still  more  matured  in  loveliness  than  when  I  had  last  beheld 
her.     The  time  that  had  elapsed  had  developed  the  graces  of 


.     OF  THE   YOtJNQ   KAIIAN.  f)7 

her  person;  and  the  sorrow  she  had  undergone  had  diffused 
over  her  countenance  an  irresistible  tenderness. 

She  blushed  and  trembled"  at  seeing  me,  and  tears  rushed 
into  her  eyes,  for  she  remembered  in  whose  company 
had  been  accustomed  to  behold  me.  For  my  part,  I  can- 
not express  what  were  my  emotions.  By  degrees  I  overcame 
the  extreme  shyness  that  had  formerly  paralyzed  me  in  her 
presence.  We  were  drawn  together  by  sympathy  of  situation. 
We  had  each  lost  our  best  friend  in  the  world ;  we  were  each, 
in  some  measure  thrown  upon  the  kindness  of  others.  When 
I  came  to  know  her  intellectually,  all  my  ideal  picturing^  of 
her  were  confirmed.  Her  newness  to  the  world,  her  delightful 
susceptibility  to  every  thing  beautiful  and  agreeable  in  nature, 
reminded  me  of  my  own  emotions  when  first  I  escaped  from 
the  convent.  Her  rectitude  of  thinking  delighted  my  judg- 
ment ;  the  sweetness  of  her  nature  wrapped  itself  around  1113' 
heart ;  and  then  her  young  and  tender  and  budding  loveliness, 
sent  a  delicious  madness  to  my  brain. 

I  gazed  upon  her  with  a  kind  of  idolatry,  as  something  more 
than  mortal ;  and  I  felt  humiliated  at  the  idea  of  my  compara- 
tive unworthiness.  Yet  she  was  mortal ;  and  one  of  mortality's 
most  susceptible  and  loving  compounds ;  for  she  loved  me ! 

How  first  I  discovered  the  transporting  truth  I  cannot  recol- 
I  believe  it  stole  upon  me  by  degrees,  as  a  wonder  past 
hope  or  belief .  We  were  both  at  such  a  tender  and  loving  age ; 
*in  constant  intercourse  with  each  other ;  mingling  in  the  same 
elegant  pursuits;  for  music,  poetry,  and  painting  were  our 
mutual  delights,  and  we  were  almost  separated  from  society, 
among  lovely  and  romantic  scenery !  Is  it  strange  that  two 
young  hearts  thus  brought  together  should  readily  twine  round 
each  other? 

Oh,  gods!  what  a  dream— a  transient  dream!  of  unalloyed 
delight  then  passed  over  my  soul !  Then  it  was  that  the  world 
around  me  was  indeed  a  paradise,  for  I  had  a  woman — lovely, 
delicious  woman,  to  share  it  with  me.  How  often  have  I  ram- 
bled over  the  picturesque  shores  of  Sestri,  or  climbed  its  wild 
mountains,  with  the  coast  gemmed  with  villas,  and  the  blue 
sea  far  below  me,  and  the  slender  Pharoof  Genoa  on  its  roman- 
tic promontory  in  the  distance :  and  as  I  sustained  the  faltering 
steps  of  Bianca,  have  thought  there  could  no  unhappiness 
enter  into  so  beautiful  a  world.  Why,  oh,  why  is  this  budding 
season  of  life  and  love  so  transient— why  is  this  rosy  cloud  of 


58  TALES  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

love  that  sheds  such  a  glow  over  the  morning  of  our  days  so 
prone  to  brew  up  into  the  whirlwind  and  the  storm ! 

I  was  the  first  to  awaken  from  this  blissful  delirium  of  the 
affections.  I  had  gained  Bianca's  heart :  what  was  I  to  do  with 
it?  I  had  no  wealth  nor  prospects  to  entitle  me  to  her  hand. 
Was  I  to  take  advantage  of  her  ignorance  of  the  world,  of  her 
confiding  affection,  and  draw  her  down  to  my  own  poverty? 
Was  this  requiting  the  hospitality  of  the  Count? — was  this 
requiting  the  love  of  Bianca  '. 

Now  first  I  began  to  feel  that  even  successful  love  may  have 
its  bitterness.  A  corroding  care  gathered  about  my  heart.  I 
moved  about  the  palace  like  a  guilty  being.  I  felt  as  if  I  had 
abused  its  hospitality — as  if  I  were  a  thief  within  its  walls.  I 
could  no  longer  look  with  unembarrassed  mien  in  the  counte- 
nance of  the  Count.  I  accused  myself  of  perfidy  to  him,  and 
I  thought  he  read  it  in  my  looks,  and  began  to  distrust  and  de- 
spise me.  His  manner  had  always  been  ostentatious  and  con- 
descending, it  now  appeared  cold  and  haughty.  Filippo,  too, 
became  reserved  and  distant;  or  at  least  I  suspected  him  to  be 
so.  Heavens! — was  this  mere  coinage  of  my  brain:  was  I  to 
become  suspicious  of  all  the  world?— a  poor  surmising  wretch; 
watching  looks  and  gestures ;  and  torturing  myself  with  mis- 
constructions. Or  if  true -was  I  to  remain  beneath  a  roof 
where  I  was  merely  tolerated,  and  linger  there  on  sufferance? 
"This  is  not  to  be  endured ! "  exclaimed  I ;  "I  will  tear  mysel 
from  this  state  of  self-abasement ;  I  will  break  through  this  fas- 
cination   and    fly Fly?— whither? — from    the    world?— for 

where  is  the  world  when  I  leave  Bianca  behind  me !" 

My  spirit  was  naturally  proud,  and  swelled  within  me  at  the 
idea  of  being  looked  upon  with  contumely.  Many  times  I  was 
on  the  point  of  declaring  my  family  and  rank,  and  asserting 
my  equality,  in  the  presence  of  Bianca,  when  I  thought  her 
relatives  assumed  an  air  of  superiority.  But  the  feeling  was 
transient.  I  considered  myself  discarded  and  contemned  by 
my  family ;  and  had  solemnly  vowed  never  to  own  relationship 
to  them,  until  they  themselves  should  claim  it. 

The  struggle  of  my  mind  preyed  upon  my  happiness  and  my 
health.  It  seemed  as  if  the  uncertainty  of  being  loved  would 
be  less  intolerable  than  thus  to  be  assured  of  it,  and  yet  not 
dare  to  enjoy  the  conviction.  I  was  no  longer  the  enraptured 
admirer  of  Bianca ;  I  no  longer  hung  in  ecstasy  on  the  tones  of 
her  voice,  nor  drank  in  with  insatiate  gaze  the  beauty  of  her 


THE  STORY  OF  THE   YOUNG  ITALIAN.  g 

countenance.  Her  very  smiles  ceased  to  delight  me,  for  I  felt 
culpable  in  having  won  them. 

She  could  not  but  be  sensible  of  the  change  in  me,  and  in- 
quired the  cause  with  her  usual  frankness  and  simplicity.  I 
could  not  evade  the  inquiry,  for  my  heart  was  full  to  aching-. 
I  told  her  all  the  conflict  of  my  soul ;  my  devouring  passion, 
my  bitter  self -upbraiding.  "Yes!"  said  I,  "I  am  unworthy 
of  you.  I  am  an  offcast  from  my  family — a  wanderer— a  name- 
less, homeless  wanderer,  with  nothing  but  poverty  for  my  por- 
tion, and  yet  I  have  dared  to  love  you— have  dared  to  aspire 
to  your  love!" 

My  agitation  moved  her  to  tears ;  but  she  saw  nothing  in  my 
situation  so  hopeless  as  I  had  depicted  it.  Brought  up  in  a  con- 
vent, she  knew  nothing  of  the  world,  its  wants,  its  cares ;— and, 
indeed,  what  woman  is  a  worldly  casuist  in  matters  of  the 
heart !— Nay,  more— she  kindled  into  a  sweet  enthusiasm  when 
she  spoke  of  my  fortunes  and  myself.  We  had  dwelt  together 
on  the  works  of  the  famous  masters.  I  had  related  to  her 
their  histories ;  the  high  reputation,  the  influence,  the  magnifi- 
cence to  which  they  had  attained ; — the  companions  of  princes, 
the  favorites  of  kings,  the  pride  and  boast  of  nations.  All  this 
she  applied  to  me.  Her  love  saw  nothing  in  their  greatest 
productions  that  I  was  not  able  to  achieve ;  and  when  I  saw 
the  lovely  creature  glow  with  fervor,  and  her  whole  counte- 
nance radiant  with  the  visions  of  my  glory,  which  seemed 
breaking  upon  her,  I  was  snatched  up  for  the  moment  into 
the  heaven  of  her  own  imagination. 

lam  dwelling  too  long^upon  this  part  of  my  story;  yet  I 
cannot  help  lingering  over  a  period  of  my  life,  on  which,  with 
all  its  cares  and  conflicts,  I  look  back  with  fondnesss ;  for  as 
yet  my  soul  was  unstained  by  a  crime.  I  do  not  know  what 
might  have  been  the  result  of  this  struggle  between  pride, 
delicacy,  and  passion,  had  I  not  read  in  a  Neapolitan  gazette 
an  account  of  the  sudden  death  of  my  brother.  It  was  ac- 
companied by  an  earnest  inquiry  for  intelligence  concerning 
me,  and  a  prayer,  should  this  notice  meet  my  eye,  that  I  would 
hasten  to  Naples,  to  comfort  an  infirm  and  afflicted  father. 

I  was  naturally  of  an  affectionate  disposition ;  but  my  brother 
had  never  been  as  a  brother  to  me ;  I  had  long  considered  my- 
self as  disconnected  from  him,  and  his  death  caused  me  but 
little  emotion.  The  thoughts  of  my  father,  infirm  and  suffer- 
ing, touched  me.  however,  to  the  quick;  and  when  I  thought 
of  him,  that  lofty,  magnificent  being,  now  bowed  down  and 


60  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER 

desolate,  tuiu  » *ung  to  me  for  comfort,  all  my  resentment  fi 
past  neglect  was  subdued,  and  a  glow  of  filial  affection  was 
awakened  within  me. 

The  predominant  feeling,  however,  that  overpowered  all 
others  was  transport  at  the  sudden  change  in  my  whole  for- 
tunes. A  home— a  name— a  rank— wealth  awaited,  me;  and 
love  painted  a  still  more  rapturous  prospect  in  the  distance.  T 
hastened  to  Bianca,  and  threw  myself  at  her  feet.  ' '  Oh, 
Bianca,"  exclaimed  I,  "at  length  I  can  claim  you  for  my  own. 
I  am  no  longer  a  nameless  adventurer,  a  neglected,  rejected 
outcast.  Look — read,  behold  the  tidings  that  restore  me  to  my 
name  and  to  myself ! " 

I  will  not  dwell  on  the  scene  that  ensued.  Bianca  rejoiced 
in  the  reverse  of  my  situation,  because  she  saw  it  lightened  my 
heart  of  a  load  of  care ;  for  her  own  part  she  had  loved  me  for 
myself,  and  had  never  doubted  that  my  own  merits  would 
command  both  fame  and  fortune. 

I  now  felt  all  my  native  pride  buoyant  within  me;  I  no 
longer  walked  with  my  eyes  bent  to  the  dust ;  hope  elevated 
them  to  the  skies;  my  soul  was  lit  up  with  fresh  fires,  and 
beamed  from  my  countenance. 

I  wished  to  impart  the  change  in  my  circumstances  to  the 
Count ;  to  let  him  know  who  and  what  I  was,  and  to  make  for- 
mal proposals  for  the  hand  of  Bianca;  but  the  Count  was 
absent  on  a  distant  estate.  I  opened  my  whole  soul  to  Filippo. 
Now  first  I  told  him  of  my  passion ;  of  the  doubts  and  fears 
that  had  distracted  me,  and  of  the  tidings  that  had  suddenly 
dispelled  them.  He  overwhelmed  me  with  congratulations  and 
with  the  warmest  expressions  of  sympathy.  I  embraced  him 
in  the  fullness  of  my  heart.  I  felt  compunctious  for  having  sus- 
pected him  of  coldness,  and  asked  him  forgiveness  for  having 
ever  doubted  his  friendship. 

Nothing  is  so  warm  and  enthusiastic  as  a  sudden  expansion 
of  the  heart  between  young  men.  Filippo  entered  into  our  con- 
cerns with  the  most  eager  interest.  He  was  our  confidant  and 
counsellor.  It  was  determined  that  I  should  hasten  at  once  to 
Naples  to  re-establish  myself  in  my  father's  affections  and  my 
paternal  home,  and  the  moment  the  reconciliation  was  effected 
and  my  father's  consent  insured,  I  should  return  and  demand 
Bianca  of  the  Count.  Filippo  engaged  to  secure  his  father's 
acquiescence;  indeed,  he  undertook  to  watch  over  our  interests, 
and  was  the  channel  through  which  we  were  to  correspond. 

My  parting  with  Bianca  was  tender — delicious— agonizing. 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  YOUNG  ITALIAN.  61 

It  was  in  a  little  pavilion  of  the  garden  which  had  been  one  of 
our  favorite  resorts.  How  often  and  often  did  I  return  to  have 
one  more  adieu — to  have  her  look  once  more  on  me  in  speech- 
less emotion — to  enjoy  once  more  the  rapturous  sight  of  those 
tears  streaming  down  her  lovely  cheeks — to  seize  once  more  on 
that  delicate  hand,  the  frankly  accorded  pledge  of  love,  and 
cover  it  with  tears  and  kisses !  Heavens !  There  is  a  delight 
even  in  the  parting  agony  of  two  lovers  worth  a  thousand  tame 
pleasures  of  the  world.  I  have  her  at  this  moment  before  my 
eyes — at  the  window  of  the  pavilion,  putting  aside  the  vines 
that  clustered  about  the  casement — her  light  form  beaming 
forth  in  virgin  white — her  countenance  all  tears  and  smiles — 
sending  a  thousand  and  a  thousand  adieus  after  me,  as,  hesita- 
ting, in  a  delirium  of  fondness  and  agitation,  I  faltered  my  way 
down  the  avenue. 

As  the  bark  bore  me  out  of  the  habor  of  Genoa,  how  eagerly 
my  eyes  stretched  along  the  coast  of  Sestri,  till  it  discerned  the 
villa  gleaming  from  among  trees  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain. 
As  long  as  day  lasted,  I  gazed  and  gazed  upon  it,  till  it  lessened 
and  lessened  to  a  mere  white  speck  in  the  distance ;  and  still 
my  intense  and  fixed  gaze  discerned  it,  when  all  other  objects 
of  the  coast  had  blended  into  indistinct  confusion,  or  were  lost 
in  the  evening  gloom. 

On  arriving  at  Naples,  I  hastened  to  my  paternal  home.  My 
heart  yearned  for  the  long-witheld  blessing  of  a  father's  love. 
As  I  entered  the  proud  portal  of  the  ancestral  palace,  my  emo- 
tions were  so  great  that  I  could  not  speak.  No  one  knew  me 
The  servants  gazed  at  me  with  curiosity  and  surprise.  A  few 
years  of  intellectual  elevation  and  development  had  made  a 
prodigious  change  in  the  poor  fugitive  stripling  from  the  con- 
vent. Still  that  no  one  should  know  me  in  my  rightful  home 
was  overpowering.  I  felt  like  the  prodigal  son  returned.  I 
was  a  stranger  in  the  house  of  my  father.  I  burst  into  tears, 
and  wept  aloud.  When  I  made  myself  known,  however,  all 
was  changed.  I  who  had  once  been  almost  repulsed  from  its 
walls,  and  forced  to  fly  as  an  exile,  was  welcomed  back 
acclamation,  with  servility.  One  of  the  servants  hastened  to 
prepare  my  father  for  my  reception ;  my  eagerness  to  receive 
the  paternal  embrace  was  so  great  that  I  could  not  await  his 
return ;  but  hurried  after  him. 

What  a  spectacle  met  my  eyes  as  I  entered  the  chaml  >or !  My 
father,  whom  I  had  left  in  the  pride  of  vigorous  age,  whose 
noble  and  majestic  bearing  had  so  awed  my  young  im 


62  TALES   JF  A    TRAVELLER 

Cion,  was  bowed  down  and  withered  into  decrepitude.  A 
paralysis  had  ravaged  his  stately  form,  and  left  it  a  shaking 
ruin.  He  sat  propped  up  in  his  chair,  with  pale,  relaxed  visage 
and  glassy,  wandering  eye.  His  intellects  had  evidently  shared 
in  the  ravage  of  his  frame.  The  servant  was  endeavoring  to 
make  him  comprehend  the  visitor  that  was  at  hand.  I  tottered 
up  to  him  and  sunk  at  his  feet.  All  his  past  coldness  and  neg- 
lect were  forgotten  in  his  present  sufferings.  I  remembered 
only  that  he  was  my  parent,  and  that  I  had  deserted  him.  I 
clasped  his  knees;  my  voice  was  almost  stifled  with  convulsive 
sobs.  "  Pardon— pardon — oh  my  father!"  was  all  that  I  could 
utter.  His  apprehension  seemed  slowly  to  return  to  him.  He 
gazed  at  me  for  some  moments  with  a  vague,  inquiring  look;  a 
convulsive  tremor  quivered  about  his  lips ;  he  feebly  extended 
a  shaking  hand,  laid  it  upon  my  head,  and  burst  into  an  infan- 
tine flow  of  tears. 

From  that  moment  he  would  scarcely  spare  me  from  his 
sight.  I  appeared  the  only  object  that  his  heart  responded  to 
in  the  world ;  all  else  was  as  a  blank  to  him.  He  had  almost 
lost  the  powers  of  speech,  and  the  reasoning  faculty  seemed  at 
an  end.  He  was  mute  and  passive;  excepting  that  fits  of 
child-like  weeping  would  sometimes  come  over  him  without 
any  immediate  cause.  If  I  left  the  room  at  any  time,  his  eye 
was  incessantly  fixed  on  the  door  till  my  return,  and  on  my 
entrance  there  was  another  gush  of  tears. 

To  talk  with  him  of  my  concerns,  in  this  ruined  state  of  mind, 
would  have  been  worse  than  useless ;  to  have  left  him,  for  ever 
so  short  a  time,  would  have  been  cruel,  unnatural.  Here  then 
was  a  new  trial  for  my  affections.  I  wrote  to  Bianca  an  ac- 
count of  my  return  and  of  my  actual  situation;  painting  in 
colors  vivid,  for  they  were  true,  the  torments  I  suffered  at  our 
being  thus  separated ;  for  to  the  youthful  lover  every  day  of 
absence  is  an  age  of  love  lost.  I  enclosed  the  letter  in  one  to 
Filippo,  who  was  the  channel  of  our  correspondence.  I  received 
a  reply  from  him  full  of  friendship  and  sympathy ;  from  Bianca 
full  of  assurances  of  affection  and  constancy. 

Week  after  week,  month  after  month  elapsed,  without 
making  any  change  in  my  circumstances.  The  vital  flame, 
which  had  seemed  nearly  extinct  when  first  I  met  my  father, 
kept  fluttering  on  without  any  apparent  diminution.  I  watched 
him  constantly,  faithfully — I  had  almost  said  patiently.  I 
knew  that  his  death  alone  would  set  me  free ;  yet  I  never  at 
any  moment  wished  it.    I  felt  too  glad  to  be  able  to  make  any 


THE  STORY  OF  THE   YOUNG  ITALIAN.  63 

atonement  for  past  disobedience ;  and,  denied  as  T  had  been  all 
endearments  of  relationship  in  my  early  days,  my  heart  yearned 
towards  e  father,  who,  in  his  age  and  helplessness,  had  thrown 
himself  entirely  on  me  for  comfort.  My  passion  for  Bianca 
gained  daily  more  force  from  absence ;  by  constant  meditation 
it  wore  itself  a  deeper  and  deeper  channel.  I  made  no  new 
friends  nor  acquaintances;  sought  none  of  the  pleasures  of 
Naples  which  my  rank  and  fortune  threw  open  to  me.  Mine 
i  heart  that  confined  itself  to  few  objects,  but  dwelt  upon 
those  with  the  intenser  passion.  To  sit  by  my  father,  and  ad- 
minister to  his  wants,  and  to  meditate  on  Bianca  in  the  silence 
of  his  chamber,  was  my  constant  habit.  Sometimes  I  amused 
myself  with  my  pencil  in  portraying  the  image  that  was  ever 
present  to  my  imagination.  I  transferred  to  canvas  every  look 
and  smile  of  hers  that  dwelt  in  my  heart.  I  showed  them  to 
my  father  in  hopes  of  awakening  an  interest  in  his  bosom  for 
the  mere  shadow  of  my  love ;  but  he  was  too  far  sunk  in  intel- 
lect to  take  any  more  than  a  child-like  notice  of  them. 

When  I  received  a  letter  from  Bianca  it  was  a  new  source  of 
solitary  luxury.  Her  letters,  it  is  true,  were  less  and  less  fre- 
quent, but  they  were  always  full  of  assurances  of  unabated 
affection.  They  breathed  not  the  frank  and  innocent  warmth 
with  which  she  expressed  herself  in  conversation,  but  I  ac- 
counted for  it  from  the  embarrassment  which  inexperienced 
minds  have  often  to  express  themselves  upon  paper.  Filippo 
assured  me  of  her  unaltered  canstancy.  They  both  lamented 
in  the  strongest  terms  our  continued  separation,  though  they 
did  justice  to  the  filial  feeling  that  kept  me  by  my  father's 
side. 

Nearly  eighteen  months  elapsed  in  this  protracted  exile.  To 
me  they  were  so  many  ages.  Ardent  and  impetuous  by 
nature,  I  scarcely  know  how  I  should  have  supported  so  long  an 
absence,  had  I  not  felt  assured  that  the  faith  of  Bianca  was 
equal  to  my  own.  At  length  my  father  died.  Life1  went  from 
him  almost  imperceptibly.  I  hung  over  him  in  mute  affliction, 
and  watched  the  expiring  spasms  of  nature.  His  last  faltering 
accents  whispered  repeatedly  a  blessing  on  me— alas!  how  has 
it  been  fulfilled ! 

When  I  had  paid  due  honors  to  his  remains,  and  laid  them 
in  the  tomb  of  our  ancestors,  I  arranged  briefly  my  affairs;  put 
thorn  in  a  posture  to  be  easily  at  my  command  from  a  distance, 
and  embarked  once  more,  with  a  bounding  heart,  for  Genoa. 

Our  voyage  was  propitious,  and  oh!  what  was  my  rapture 


f54  i  E8   OF  A    TEA  VELLER. 

when  first,  in  the  dawn  of  morning,  I  saw  the  shadowy  sum- 
mits of  the  Apennines  rising  almost  like  clouds  above  the 
horizon.  The  sweet  breath  of  summer  just  moved  us  over  the 
long  wavering  billows  that  were  rolling  us  on  towards  Genoa. 
By  degrees  the  coast  of  Sestri  rose  like  a  sweet  creation  of 
enchantment  from  the  silver  bosom  of  the  deep.  I  beheld  the 
line  of  villages  and  palaces  studding  its  borders.  My  eye 
ted  to  a  well-known  point,  and  at  length,  from  the  con- 
fusion of  distant  objects,  it  singled  out  the  villa  which  con- 
tained Bianca.  It  was  a  mere  speck  in  the  landscape,  but 
glimmering  from  afar,  the  polar  star  of  my  heart. 

Again  I  gazed  at  it  for  a  livelong  summer's  day ;  but  oh  how 
different  the  emotions  between  departure  and  return.  It  now 
kept  growing  and  growing,  instead  of  lessening  on  my  sight. 
My  heart  seemed  to  dilate  with  it.  I  looked  at  it  through  a 
telescope.  I  gradually  defined  one  feature  after  another.  The 
balconies  of  the  central  saloon  where  first  I  met  Bianoa  beneath 
its  roof ;  the  terrace  where  we  so  often  had  passed  the  delight- 
ful summer  evenings;  the  awning  that  shaded  her  chamber 
window — I  almost  fancied  I  saw  her  form  beneath  it.  Could 
she  but  know  her  lover  was  in  the  bark  whose  white  sail  now 
gleamed  on  the  sunny  bosom  of  the  sea!  My  fond  impatience 
increased  as  we  neared  the  coast.  The  ship  seemed  to  lag 
lazily  over  the  billows ;  I  could  almost  have  sprung  into  the 
sea  and  swam  to  the  desired  shore. 

The  shadows  of  evening  gradually  shrouded  the  scene,  but 
the  moon  arose  in  all  her  fullness  and  beauty,  and  shed  the 
tender  light  so  dear  to  lovers,  over  the  romantic  coast  of  Sestri. 
My  whole  soul  was  bathed  in  unutterable  tenderness.  I  an- 
ticipated the  heavenly  evenings  I  should  pass  in  wandering 
with  Bianca  by  the  light  of  that  blessed  moon. 

It  was  late  at  night  before  we  entered  the  harbor.  As  early 
next  morning  as  I  could  get  released  from  the  formalities  of 
landing  I  threw  myself  on  horseback  and  hastened  to  the  villa. 
As  I  galloped  round  the  rocky  promontory  on  which  stands 
the  Faro,  and  saw  the  coast  of  Sestri  opening  upon  me,  a  thou- 
sand anxieties  and  doubts  suddenly  sprang  up  in  my  bosom. 
There  is  something  fearful  in  returning  to  those  we  love,  while 
yet  uncertain  what  ills  or  changes  absence  may  have  effected. 
The  turbulence  of  my  agitation  shook  my  very  frame.  I 
spurred  my  horse  to  redoubled  speed;  he  was  covered  with 
foam  when  we  both  arrived  panting  at  the  gateway  that 
opened  to  the  grounds  around  the  villa.     I  left  my  horse  at  a 


THE  STORY  OF  TllR   YOUXil  ITALIAN.  65 

cottage  and  walked  through  the  grounds,  that  I  might  regain 
tranquillity  for  the  approaching  interview.  I  chid  myself  for 
having  suffered  mere  doubts  and  surmises  thus  suddenly  to 
overcome  me ;  but  I  was  always  prone  to  be  carried  away  by 
these  gusts  of  the  feelings. 

On  entering  the  garden  everything  bore  the  same  look  as 
when  I  had  left  it ;  and  this  unchanged  aspect  of  things  reas- 
sured me.  There  were  the  alleys  in  which  I  had  so  often 
walked  with  Bianca ;  the  same  shades  under  which  we  had  so 
often  sat  during  the  noontide.  There  were  the  same  flowers  of 
which  she  was  fond ;  and  which  appeared  still  to  be  under  the 
ministry  of  her  hand.  Everything  around  looked  and  breathed 
of  Bianca ;  hope  aud  joy  flushed  in  my  bosom  at  every  step. 
I  passed  a  little  bower  in  which  we  had  often  sat  and  read 
together.  A  book  and  a  glove  lay  on  the  bench.  It  was 
Bianca's  glove ;  it  was  a  volume  of  the  Metestasio  I  had  given 
her.  The  glove  lay  in  my  favorite  passage.  I  clasped  them  to 
my  heart.  "All  is  safe!"  exclaimed  I,  with  rapture,  "she 
loves  me !  she  is  still  my  own !" 

I  bounded  lightly  along  the  avenue  down  which  I  had  fal- 
tered so  slowly  at  my  departure.  I  beheld  her  favorite  pavilion 
which  had  witnessed  our  parting  scene.  The  window  was 
open,  with  the  same  vine  clambering  about  it,  precisely  as 
when  she  waved  and  wept  me  an  adieu.  Oh !  how  transporting 
was  the  contrast  in  my  situation.  As  I  passed  near  the  pavil- 
ion, I  heard  the  tones  of  a  female  voice.  They  thrilled  through 
me  with  an  appeal  to  my  heart  not  to  be  mistaken.  Before  I 
could  think,  I  felt  they  were  Bianca's.  For  an  instant  I 
paused,  overpowered  with  agitation.  I  feared  to  break  in  sud- 
denly upon  her.  I  softly  ascended  the  steps  of  the  pavilion. 
The  door  was  open.  I  saw  Bianca  seated  at  a  table ;  her  back 
was  towards  me;  she  was  warbling  a  soft  melancholy  air,  and 
w-as  occupied  in  drawing.  A  glance  sufficed  to  show  me  that 
she  was  copying  one  of  my  own  paintings.  I  gazed  on  her  for 
a  moment  in  a  delicious  tumult  of  emotions.  She  paused  in 
her  singing;  a  heavy  sigh,  almost  a  sob  followed.  I  could  no 
longer  contain  myself.  "Bianca!"  exclaimed  I,  in  a  half 
smothered  voice.  See  started  at  the  sound ;  brushed  back  the 
ringlets  that  hung  clustering  about  her  face ;  darted  a  glance  at 
me;  uttered  a  piercing  shriek,  and  would  have  fallen  to  the 
earth,  had  I  not  caught  her  in  my  arms. 

"Bianca!  my  own  Bianca!"  exclaimed  I,  folding  her  to  my 
bosom;  my  voice  stifled  in  sobs  of  convulsive  joy.     She  lay  in 


G6  TALES  OF  A    TJtA  VELLE& 

my  arms  without  sense  or  motion.  Alarmed  at  ohe  ^fleets  of 
my  own  precipitation,  I  scarce  knew  what  to  do  I  tried  by  a 
thousand  endearing  words  to  call  her  back  to  consciousness. 
She  slowly  recovered,  and  half  opening  her  eyes— "  where  am 
I?"  murmured  she  faintly.  "  Here,"  exclaimed  1,  pressing  her 
to  my  bosom.  "Here!  close  to  the  heart  that  adores  you;  in 
the  arms  of  your  faithful  Ottavib!" 

"Oh  no'!  no!  no!"  shrieked  she,  starting  into  sudden  life  and 
terror— "away !  away!  leave  me!  leave  me!" 

She  tore  herself  from  my  arms;  rushed  to  a  corner  of  the 
saloon,  and  covered  her  fact  with  her  hands,  as  if  the  very 
sight  of  me  were  baleful.  I  was  thunderstruck — I  could  not 
believe  my  senses.  I  followed  her,  trembling,  confounded.  \ 
endeavored  to  take-  nor  hand,  but  she  shrunk  Irom  my  very 
touch  with  horror. 

"Good  heavens,  Bianca,"  exclaimed  I,  "what  is  the  meaning 
of  this?  Is  thib  my  reception  after  so  long  an  absence?  Is  this 
the  love  you  professed  for  me?" 

At  the  mention  of  love,  a  shuddering  ran  through  her.  She 
turned  to  me  a  face  wild  with  anguish.  "No  more  of  that! 
no  more  of  that!"  gasped  she — "talk  not  to  me  of  love—  7— I — 
am  married  !*■ 

I  reeled  as  if  I  had  received  a  mortal  blow.  A  sickness 
struck  to  my  very  heart.  I  caught  at  a  window  frame  for 
support.  For  a  moment  or  two,  everything  was  chaos  around 
me.  When  I  recovered,  I  beheld  Bianca  lying  on  a  sofa ;  hei 
face  buried  in  a  pillow,  and  sobbing  convulsively.  Indignation 
at  her  fickleness  for  a  moment  overpowered  every  other  feeling. 

"  Faithless — perjured—"  cried  I,  striding  across  the  room. 
But  another  glance  at  that  beautiful  being  in  distress,  checked 
all  my  wrath.  Anger  could  not  dwell  together  with  her  idea 
in  my  soul. 

"  Oh,  Bianca,"  exclaimed  I,  in  anguish,  "could  I  have  dreamt 
of  this ;  could  I  have  suspected  you  would  have  been  false  to 
me?M 

She  raised  her  face  all  streaming  with  tears,  all  disordered 
with  emotion,  and  gave  me  one  appealing  look — "False  to  you ! 
—they  told  me  you  were  dead !" 

"  What,"  said  I,  "in  spite  of  our  constant  correspondence?" 

She  gazed  wildly  at  me— "correspondence!— what  corres- 
pondence?" 

"Have  you  not  repeatedly  received  and  replied  to  my 
letters?" 


THE  STORY  OF  THE   YOUNQ  ITALIAN.  67 

She  clasped  her  hands  with  solemnity  and  fervor — "As  I 
hope  for  mercy,  never !" 

A  horrible  surmise  shot  through  my  brain— •  Who  told  you 
I  was  dead?" 

'  •  It  was  reported  that  the  ship  in  which  you  embarked  for 
Naples  perished  at  sea." 

"  But  who  told  you  the  report  ?" 

She  paused  for  an  instant,  and  trembled — 

''•Firippo:" 

••  May  the  God  of  heaven  curse  him:"  cried  I,  extending  my 
clinched  fists  aloft. 

••  Oh  do  not  curse  him— do  not  curse  him!"  exclaimed  she— 
"He  is — he  is — my  husband!" 

This  was  all  that  was  wanting  to  unfold  the  perfidy  that  had 
been  practised  upon  me.  My  blood  boiled  like  liquid  fire  in 
my  veins.  I  gasped  with  rage  too  great  for  utterance.  1 
remained  for  a  time  bewildered  by  the  whirl  of  horrible 
thoughts  that  rushed  through  my  mind.  The  poor  victim 
of  deception  before  me  thought  it  was  with  her  I  was  incensed. 
She  faintly  murmured  forth  her  exculpation.  I  will  not  dwell 
upon  it.  I  saw  in  it  more  than  she  meant  to  reveal.  I  saw 
with  a  glance  how  both  of  us  had  been  betrayed.  "  Tis  well !" 
muttered  I  to  myself  in  smothered  accents  of  concentrate;; 
fury.     "He  shall  account  to  me  for  this!" 

Bianca  overhead  me.  New  terror  flashed  in  her  counte- 
nance. "For  mercy's  sake  do  not  meet  him — sa}~  nothing  of 
what  lias  passed— for  my  sake  say  nothing  to  him— I  only  shall 
be  the  sufferer !" 

A  new  suspicion  darted  across  my  mind — %'  What !"  exclaimed 
I— "do  you  then  fear  him— is  he  unkind  to  you— tell  me," 
reiterated  I,  grasping  her  hand  and  looking  her  eagerly  in  the 
face—  "tell  me— dares  he  to  use  you  harshly  !" 

"No!  no!  no!"  cried  she  faltering  and  embarrassed ;  but  the 
glance  at  her  face  had  told  me  volumes.  I  saw  in  her  pallid 
and  wasted  features;  in  the  prompt  terror  and  subdued  agony 
of  her  eye  a  whole  history  of  a  mind  broken  down  by  tyranny. 
Great  God !  and  was  this  beauteous  flower  snatched  from  me 
to  be  thus  trampled  upon?  The  idea  roused  me  to  madness 
I  clinched  my  teeth  and  my  hands ;  I  foamed  at  the  mouth ; 
every  passion  seemed  to  have  resolved  itself  into  the  fury  that 
like  a  lava  boiled  within  my  heart.  Bianca  shrunk  from  me 
in  speechless  affright.  As  I  strode  by  the  window  my  eye 
darted  down  the  alley.    Fatal  moment!    [  beheld  Filippo  at  n 


68  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER 

distance!  My  brain  was  in  a  delirium -I  sprang  from  the 
pavilion,  and  was  before  him  with  the  quickness  of  lightning. 
He  saw  me  as  I  came  rushing  upon  him — he  turned  pale, 
looked  wildly  to  right  and  left,  as  if  he  would  have  fled,  and 
trembling  drew  his  sword. 

"  Wretch !"  cried  I,  "  well  may  you  draw  your  weapon !" 

I  spake  not  another  word— I  snatched  forth  a  stiletto,  put  b? 
the  sword  which  trembled  in  his  hand,  and  buried  my  poniard 
in  his  bosom.  He  fell  with  the  blow,  but  my  rage  was  unsated. 
I  sprang  upon  him  with  the  blood-thirsty  feeling  of  a  tiger ; 
redoubled  my  blows ;  mangled  him  in  my  frenzy,  grasped  him 
by  the  throat,  until  with  reiterated  wounds  and  strangling 
convulsions  he  expired  in  my  grasp.  I  remained  glaring  on 
the  countenance,  horrible  in  death,  that  seemed  to  stare  back 
with  its  protruded  eyes  upon  me.  Piercing  shrieks  roused  me 
from  my  delirium.  I  looked  round  and  beheld  Bianca  flying 
distractedly  towards  us.  My  brain  whirled.  I  waited  not  to 
meet  her,  but  fled  from  the  scene  of  horror. .  I  fled  forth  from 
the  garden  like  another  Cain,  a  hell  within  my  bosom,  and  a 
curse  upon  my  head.  I  fled  without  knowing  whither — almost 
without  knowing  why — my  only  idea  was  to  get  farther  and 
farther  from  the  horrors  I  had  left  behind ;  as  if  I  could  throw 
space  between  myself  and  my  conscience.  I  fled  to  the  Apen- 
nines, and  wandered  for  days  and  days  among  their  savage 
heights.  How  I  existed  I  cannot  tell— what  rocks  and  preci- 
pices I  braved,  and  how  I  braved  them,  I  know  not.  I  kept 
on  and  on — trying  to  outtravel  the  curse  that  clung  to  me. 
Alas,  the  shrieks  of  Bianca  rung  for  ever  in  my  ear.  The  hor- 
rible countenance  of  my  victim  was  for  ever  before  my  eyes. 
"The  blood  of  Filippo  cried  to  me  from  the  ground."  Rocks, 
trees,  and  torrents  all  resounded  with  my  crime. 

Then  it  was  I  felt  how  much  more  insupportable  is  the 
anguish  of  remorse  than  every  other  mental  pang.  Oh !  could 
I  but  have  cast  off  this  crime  that  festered  in  my  heart ;  could 
I  but  have  regained  the  innocence  that  reigned  in  my  breast  as 
I  entered  the  garden  at  Sestri ;  could  I  but  have  restored  my 
victim  to  life,  I  felt  as  if  I  could  look  on  with  transport  even 
though  Bianca  were  in  his  arms. 

By  degrees  tins  frenzied  fever  of  remorse  settled  into  a 
permanent  malady  of  the  mind.  Into  one  of  the  most  horrible 
that  ever  poor  wretch  was  cursed  with.  Wherever  I  went,  the 
countenance  of  him  I  had  slain  appeared  to  follow  me.  Wher- 
ever I  turned  my  head  I  beheld  it  behind  me,  hideous  with  th§ 


Til E  STORY  OF  THE   YOUNG    ITALIAN.  69 

contortions  of  the  dying  moment.  I  have  tried  in  every  way 
to  escape  from  this  horrible  phantom;  but  in  vain.  I  know 
not  whether  it  is  an  illusion  of  the  mind,  the  consequence  of 
my  dismal  education  at  the  convent,  or  whether  a  phantom 
really  sent  by  heaven  to  punish  me ;  but  there  it  ever  is— at  all 
tunes — in  all  places— nor  has  time  nor  habit  had  any  effect  in 
familiarizing  me  with  its  terrors.  I  have  travelled  from  place 
to  place,  plunged  into  amusements— tried  dissipation  and  dis- 
traction of  every  kind — all — all  in  vain. 

I  once  had  recourse  to  my  pencil  as  a  desperate  experiment. 
I  painted  an  exact  resemblance  of  this  phantom  face.  I  placed 
it  before  me  in  hopes  that  by  constantly  contemplating  the 
copy  I  might  diminish  the  effect  of  the  original.  But  I  only 
doubled  instead  of  diminishing  the  misery. 

Such  is  the  curse  that  has  clung  to  my  footsteps— that  has 
made  my  life  a  burthen — but  the  thoughts  of  death,  terrible. 
God  knows  what  I  have  suffered.  What  days  and  days,  and 
nights  and  nights,  of  sleepless  torment.  What  a  never-dying 
worm  has  preyed  upon  my  heart;  what  an  unquenchable  fire 
has  burned  within  my  brain.  He  knows  the  wrongs  that 
wrought  upon  my  poor  weak  nature ;  that  converted  the  ten- 
derest  of  affections  into  the  deadliest  of  fury.  He  knows  best 
whether  a  frail  erring  creature  has  expiated  by  long-enduring 
torture  and  measureless  remorse,  the  crime  of  a  moment  of 
madness.  Often,  often  have  I  prostrated  myself  in  the  dust, 
and  implored  that  he  would  give  me  a  sign  of  his  forgiveness, 
and  let  me  die. 

Thus  far  had  I  written  some  time  since.  I  had  meant  to 
leave  this  record  of  misery  and  crime  with  you,  to  be  read 
when  I  should  be  no  more.  My  prayer  to  heaven  has  at  length 
been  heard.  You  were  witness  to  my  emotions  last  evening  at 
the  performance  of  the  Miserere;  when  the  vaulted  temple 
resounded  with  the  words  of  atonement  and  redemption.  I 
heard  a  voice  speaking  to  me  from  the  midst  of  the  music ;  I 
heard  it  rising  above  the  pealing  of  the  organ  and  the  voices  of 
the  choir ;  it  spoke  to  me  in  tones  of  celestial  melody ;  it  prom- 
ised mercy  and  forgiveness,  but  demanded  from  me  full  expia- 
tion. I  go  to  make  it.  To-morrow  I  shall  be  on  my  way  to 
Genoa  to  surrender  myself  to  justice.  You  who  have  pitied 
my  sufferings ;  who  have  poured  the  balm  of  sympathy  into  my 
wounds,  do  not  shrink  from  my  memory  with  abhorrence  now 
hat  you  know  my  story.  Recollect,  when  you  read  of  uvy 
:rime  I  shall  have  atoned  for  it  with  my  blood  ' 


70  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

When  the  Baronet  had  finished,  there  was  an  universal 
desire  expressed  to  see  the  painting  of  this  frightful  visage. 
After  much  entreaty  the  Baronet  consented,  on  condition  that 
ihey  should  only  visit  it  one  by  one.  He  called  his  house- 
keeper and  gave  her  charge  to  conduct  the  gentlemen  singly  to 
the  chamber.  They  all  returned  varying  in  their  stories :  some 
:  affected  in  one  way,  some  in  another ;  some  more,  some  less  • 
jut  all  agreeing  that  there  was  a  certain  something  about  the 
painting  that  had  a  very  odd  effect  upon  the  feelings. 

I  stood  in  a  deep  bow  window  with  the  Baronet,  and  could 
not  help  expressing  my  wonder.  "After  all,"  said  I,  "there 
are  certain  mysteries  in  our  nature,  certain  inscrutable  impulses 
and  influences,  that  warrant  one  in  being  superstitious.  Who 
can  account  for  so  many  persons  of  different  characters  being 
thus  strangely  affected  by  a  mere  painting?'' 

"And  especially  when  not  one  of  them  has  seen  it!"  said  the 
Baronet  with  a  smile. 

"How?"  exclaimed  I,  "not  seen  it?" 

"Not  one  of  them?"  replied  he,  laying  his  finger  on  his  lips 
in  sign  of  secrecy.  ' '  I  saw  that  some  of  them  were  in  a  ban- 
tering vein,  and  I  did  not  choose  that  the  memento  of  the  poor 
Italian  should  be  made  a  jest  of.  So  I  gave  the  housekeeper  a 
hint  to  show  them  all  to  a  different  chamber !" 


Thus  end  the  Stories  of  the  Nervous  Gentleman. 


TALES  OF  A  TRAVELLER. 


PART  SECOND. 


BUCKTHOKNE  AND  HIS  FRIENDS. 

'Tis  a  very  good  world  that  we  live  in, 

To  lend,  or  to  spend,  or  to  give  in; 

But  to  beg,  or  to  borrow,  or  get  a  man's  own, 

'Tis  the  very  worst  world,  sir,  that  ever  was  known." 

Lines  from  ax  Inn  Window. 


LITERARY  LIFE. 

Among  the  great  variety  of  characters  which  fall  in  a  travel 
ler"s  way,  I  became  acquainted  during  my  sojourn  in  London, 
with  an  eccentric  personage  of  the  name  of  Buckthorne.  He 
was  a  literary  man,  had  lived  much  in  the  metropolis,  and  had 
acquired  a  great  deal  of  curious,  though  unprofitable  knowl- 
edge concerning  it.  He  was  a  great  observer  of  character,  and 
could  give  the  natural  history  of  every  odd  animal  that  pre- 
sented itself  in  this  great  wilderness  of  men.  Finding  me  very 
curious  about  literary  life  and  literary  characters,  he  took 
much  pains  to  gratify  my  curiosity. 

"The  literary  world  of  England,"  said  he  to  me  one  day,  "is 
made  up  of  a  number  of  -ittle  fraternities,  each  existing  merely 
for  itself,  and  thinking  ihe  rest  of  the  world  created  only  to 
look  on  and  admire.  It  may  be  resembled  to  the  firmament, 
consisting  of  a  number  of  systems,  each  composed  of  its  own 
central  sun  with  its  revolving  train  of  moons  and  satellites,  all 
acting  in  the  most  harmonious  concord;  but  the  comparison 
fails  in  part,  inasmuch  as  the  literary  world  has  no  general 
concord.  Each  system  acts  independently  of  the  rest,  and 
indeed  considers  all  other  stars  as  mere  exhalations  and  tran- 
sient meteors,  beaming  for  awhile  with  false  fires,  but  doomed 
soon  to  fall  and  be  forgotten;  while  its  own  luminaries  are  the 


72  TALES  OF  A    TliA  VELLELi. 

lights  of  the  universe,  destined  to  increase  in  splendor  and  to 
shine  steadily  on  to  immortality.1' 

11  And  pray,"  said  I,  "  how  is  a  man  to  get  a  peep  into  one  of 
these  systems  you  talk  of?  I  presume  an  intercourse  with 
authors  is  a  kind  of  intellectual  exchange,  where  one  must 
bring  his  commodities  to  barter,  and  always  give  a  quid  pro 
quo." 

"Pooh,  pooh — how  you  mistake,"  said  Buckthorne,  smiling: 
"you  must  never  think  to  become  popular  among  wits  by 
sinning.  They  go  into  society  to  shine  themselves,  not  to 
admire  the  brilliancy  of  others.  I  thought  as  you  do  when  I 
first  cultivated  the  society  of  men  of  letters,  and  never  went  to 
a  blue-stocking  coterie  without  studying  my  part  beforehand 
as  diligently  as  an  actor.  The  consequence  was,  I  soon  got  the 
name  of  an  intolerable  proser,  and  should  in  a  little  while  have 
been  completely  excommunicated  had  I  not  changed  my  plan 
of  operations.  From  thenceforth  I  became  a  most  assiduous 
listener,  or  if  ever  I  were  eloquent,  it  was  tete-a-tete  with  an 
author  in  praise  of  his  own  works,  or  what  is  nearly  as  accept- 
able, in  disparagement  of  the  works  of  his  contemporaries.  If 
ever  he  spoke  favorably  of  the  productions  of  some  particular 
friend,  I  ventured  boldly  to  dissent  from  him,  and  to  prove  that 
Ins  friend  was  a  blockhead ;  and  much  as  people  say  of  the 
pertinacity  and  irritability  of  authors,  I  never  found  one  to 
take  offence  at  my  contradictions.  No,  no,  sir,  authors  are 
particularly  candid  in  admitting  the  faults  of  their  friends. 

"Indeed,  I  was  extremely  sparing  of  my  remarks  on  all 
modern  works,  excepting  to  make  sarcastic  observations  on  the 
most  distinguished  writers  of  the  day.  I  never  ventured  to 
praise  an  author  that  had  not  been  dead  at  least  half  a  century ; 
and  even  then  I  was  rather  cautious ;  for  you  must  know  that 
many  old  writers  have  been  enlisted  under  the  banners  of  dif- 
ferent sects,  and  their  merits  have  become  as  complete  topics 
of  party  prejudice  and  dispute,  as  the  merits  of  living  states- 
men and  politicians.  Nay,  there  have  been  whole  periods  of 
literature  absolutely  tabooed,  to  use  a  South  Sea  phrase.  It  is, 
for  example,  as  much  as  a  man's  reputation  is  worth,  in  some 
circles,  to  say  a  word  in  praise  of  any  writers  of  the  reign  of 
Charles  the  Second,  or  even  of  Queen  Anne;  they  being  all 
declared  to  be  Frenchmen  in  disguise. " 

"  And  pray,  then,"  said  I,  "  when  am  I  to  know  that  I  am  on 
safe  grounds;  being  totally  unacquainted  with  the  literary 
landmarks  and  the  boundary  lines  of  fashionable  taste  f" 


A   LITERARY  DINNER.  73 

"  Oh.,,  replid  he,  there  is  fortunately  one  tract  of  literature 
that  forms  a  kind  of  neutral  ground,  on  which  all  the  literary 
world  meet  amicably ;  lay  down  their  weapons  and  even  run 
riot  in  their  excess  of  good  humor,  and  this  is,  the  reigns  of 
Elizabeth  and  James.  Here  you  may  praise  away  at  a  venture ; 
here  it  is  'cut  and  come  again,'  and  the  more  obscure  the 
author,  and  the  more  quaint  and  crabbed  his  style,  the  more 
your  admiration  will  smack  of  the  real  relish  of  the  connoisseur ; 
whose  taste,  like  that  of  an  epicure,  is  always  for  game  that  has 
an  antiquated  flavor. 

"  But,"  continued  he,  "  as  you  seem  anxious  to  know  some- 
thing of  literary  society  I  will  take  an  opportunity  to  introduce 
you  to  some  coterie,  where  the  talents  of  the  day  are  assembled. 
I  cannot  promise  you,  however,  that  they  will  be  of  the  first 
order.  Somehow  or  other,  our  great  geniuses  are  not  gregari- 
ous, they  do  not  go  in  flocks,  but  fly  singly  in  general  society. 
They  prefer  mingling,  like  common  men,  with  the  multitude ; 
and  are  apt  to  carry  nothing  of  the  author  about  them  but  the 
reputation.  It  is  only  the  inferior  orders  that  herd  together, 
acquire  strength  and  importance  by  their  confederacies,  and 
bear  all  the  distinctive  characteristics  of  their  species." 


A  LITERARY  DINNER. 

A  few  days  after  this  conversation  with  Mr.  Buckthorne,  he 
called  upon  me,  and  took  me  with  him  to  a  regular  literary 
dinner.  It  was  given  by  a  great  bookseller,  or  rather  a  company 
of  booksellers,  whose  firm  surpassed  in  length  even  that  of 
Shadraeh,  Meschach,  and  Abed-nego. 

I  was  surprised  to  find  between  twenty  and  thirty  guests 
assembled,  most  of  whom  I  had  never  seen  before.  Buckthorne 
explained*  this  to  me  by  informing  me  that  this  was  a  "  busi- 
ness dinner,"  or  kind  of  field  day.  which  the  house  gave  about 
twice  a  year  to  its  authors.  It  is  true,  they  did  occasionally 
give  snug  dinners  to  three  or  four  literary  men  at  a  time,  but 
then  these  were  generally  select  authors ;  favorites  of  the  pub- 
lic; such  as  had  arrived  at  their  sixth  and  seventh  editions. 
"There  are,"  said  he,  "  certain  geographical  boundaries  in  the 
land  of  literature,  and  you  may  judge  tolerably  well  of  an 
author's  popularity,  by  the  wine  his  bookseller  gives  him.  An 
author  crosses  the  port  line  about  the  third  edition  an  I 


74  TALES   OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

into  claret,  but  when  he  has  reached  the  sixth  and  seventh,  he 
may  revel  in  champagne  and  burgundy." 

"And  pray,"  said  I,  "how  far  may  these  gentlemen  have 
reached  that  I  see  around  me  are  any  of  these  claret  drinkers  I" 

' '  Not  exactly,  not  exactly.  You  find  at  these  great  dinners 
the  common  steady  run  of  authors,  one,  two,  edition  men; 
or  if  any  others  are  invited  they  are  aware  that  it  is  a  kind  of 
republican  meeting. — You  understand  me — a  meeting  of  the 
republic  of  letters,  and  that  they  must  expect  nothing  but  plain 
substantial  fare. " 

These  hints  enabled  me  to  comprehend  more  fully  the  arrange- 
ment of  the  table.  The  two  ends  were  occupied  by  two  partners 
of  the  house.  And  the  host  seemed  to  have  adopted  Addison's 
ideas  as  to  the  literary  precedence  of  his  guests.  A  popular 
poet  had  the  post  of  honor,  opposite  to  whom  was  a  hot-pressed 
traveller  in  quarto,  with  plates.  A  grave-looking  antiquarian, 
who  had  produced  several  solid  works,  winch  were  much  quoted 
and  little  read,  was  treated  with  great  respect,  and  seated  next 
to  a  neat,  dressy  gentleman  in  black,  who  had  written  a  thin, 
genteel,  hot-pressed  octavo  on  political  economy  that  was  getting 
into  fashion.  Several  three-volume  duodecimo  men  of  fair 
currency  were  placed  about  the  centre  of  the  table ;  while  the 
lower  end  was  taken  up  with  small  poets,  translators,  and 
authors,  who  had  not  as  yet  risen  into  much  notice. 

The  conversation  during  dinner  was  by  fits  and  starts ;  break- 
ing out  here  and  there  in  various  parts  of  the  table  in  small 
flashes,  and  ending  in  smoke.  The  poet,  who  had  the  confidence 
of  a  man  on  good  terms  with  the  world  and  independent  of  his 
bookseller,  was  very  gay  and  brilliant,  and  said  many  clever 
things,  which  set  the  partner  next  him  in  a  roar,  and  delighted 
all  the  company.  The  other  partner,  however,  maintained  his 
sedateness,  and  kept  carving  on,  with  the  air  of  a  thorough 
man  of  business,  intent  upon  the  occupation  of  the  moment. 
His  gravity  was  explained  to  me  by  my  friend  Buckthorne.  He 
informed  me  that  the  concerns  of  the  house  were  admirably 
distributed  among  the  partners.  "Thus,"  for  instance,"  said 
he,  "  the  grave  gentleman  is  the  carving  partner  who  attends 
to  the  joints,  and  the  other  is  the  laughing  partner  who  attends 
to  the  jokes. " 

The  general  conversation  was  chiefly  carried  on  at  the  upper 
end  of  the  table ;  as  the  authors  there  seemed  to  possess  the 
greatest  courage  of  the  tongue.  As  to  the  crew  at  the  lower 
end    if  they  did  not  make  much  figure  in  talking,  they  did 


A  LITER  A  in'   DINNER.  7fi 

fa  eating.  Never  was  there  a  more  determined,  inveterate, 
thoroughly-sustained  attack  on  the  trencher,  than  by  this 
phalanx  of  masticators.  When  the  cloth  was  removed,  and 
the  wine  began  to  circulate,  they  grew  very  merry  and  jocose 
among  themselves.  Their  jokes,  however,  if  by  chance  any  of 
them  reached  the  upper  end  of  the  table,  seldom  produced 
much  effect.  Even  the  laughing  partner  did  not  seem  to  think 
it  necessary  to  honor  them  with  a  smile;  which  my  neighbm 
Buckthorne  accounted  for,  by  informing  me  that  there  was  a 
certain  degree  of  popularity  to  be  obtained,  before  a  bookseller 
could  afford  to  laugh  at  an  author's  jokes. 

Among  this  crew  of  questionable  gentlemen  thus  seated  below 
the  salt,  my  eye  singled  out  one  in  particular.  He  was  rather 
shabbily  dressed ;  though  he  had  evidently  made  the  most  of  a 
rusty  black  coat,  and  wore  his  shirt-frill  plaited  and  puffed  out 
voluminously  at  the  bosom.  His  face  was  dusky,  but  florid — 
perhaps  a  little  too  florid,  particularly  about  the  nose,  though 
the  rosy  hue  gave  the  greater  lustre  to  a  twinkling  black  eye. 
He  had  a  little  the  look  of  a  boon  companion,  with  that  dash  of 
the  poor  devil  in  it  wiiich  gives  an  inexpressibly  mellow  tone 
to  a  man's  humor.  I  had  seldom  seen  a  face  of  richer  promise ; 
but  never  was  promise  so  ill  kept.  He  said  nothing ;  ate  and 
drank  with  the  keen  appetite  of  a  gazetteer,  and  scarcely  stop- 
ped to  laugh  even  at  the  good  jokes  from  the  upper  end  of  the 
table.  1  inquired  who  he  was.  Buckthorne  looked  at  him 
attentively.  "Gad,"  said  he,  "I  have  seen  that  face  before, 
but  where  I  cannot  recollect.  He  cannot  be  an  author  of  any 
note.  I  suppose  some  wrriter  of  sermons  or  grinder  of  foreign 
travels. " 

After  dinner  we  retired  to  another  room  to  take  tea  and 
coffee,  where  we  were  re-enforced  by  a  cloud  of  inferior  g\< 
Authors  of  small  volumes  in  boards,  and  pamphlets  stitch  ( id  i 
blue  paper.  These  had  not  as  yet  arrived  to  the  importance  oi 
a  dinner  invitation,  but  were  invited  occasionally  to  pass  the 
evening  "in  a  friendly  way."  They  were  very  respectful  to 
the  partners,  and  indeed  seemed  to  stand  a  little  in  awe  of 
them;  but  they  paid  very  devoted  court  to  the  lady  of  the 
house,  and  were  extravagantly  fond  of  the  children.  I  looked 
round  for  the  poor  devil  author  in  the  rusty  black  coat  and 
magnificent  frill,  but  he  had  disappeared  immediately  after 
leaving  the  table;  having  a  dread,  no  doubt,  of  the  glaring 
light  of  a  drawing-room.  Finding  nothing  farther  to  interest 
my  attention,  I  took  my, departure  a^  soon  as  coffee  had  been 


76  TALES  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

served,  leaving  the  port  and  the  thin,  genteel,  hot-pressed, 
octavo  gentlemen,  masters  of  the  field. 


THE  CLUB  OF  QUEER  FELLOWS. 

T  think  it  was  but  tne  very  next  evening  that  in  coming  out 
A  Coveot  Garden  Theatre  with  my  eccentric  friend  Buck- 
ihorne,  he  proposed  to  give  me  another  peep  at  life  and  charac- 
ter. Finding  me  willing  for  any  research  of  the  kind,  he  took 
me  through  a  variety  of  the  narrow  courts  and  lanes  about 
Covent  Garden,  until  we  stopped  before  a  tavern  from  which 
we  heard  the  bursts  of  merriment  of  a  jovial  party.  There 
would  be  a  loud  peal  of  laughter,  then  an  interval,  then 
another  peal ;  as  if  a  prime  wag  were  telling  a  story.  After 
a  little  while  there  was  a  song,  and  at  the  close  of  each  stanza 
a  hearty  roar  and  a  vehement  thumping  on  the  table. 

' '  This  is  the  place, "  whispered  Buckthorne.  ' '  It  is  the  '  Club 
of  Queer  Fellows.'  A  great  resort  of  the  small  wits,  third-rate 
actors,  and  newspaper  critics  of  the  theatres.  Any  one  can  go 
in  on  paying  a  shilling  at  the  bar  for  the  use  of  the  club." 

We  entered,  therefore,  without  ceremony,  and  took  our  seats 
at  a  lone  table  in  a  dusky  corner  of  the  room.  The  club  was 
assembled  round  a  table,  on  which  stood  beverages  of  various 
kinds,  according  to  the  taste  of  the  individual.  The  members 
were  a  set  of  queer  fellows  indeed ;  but  what  was  my  surprise 
on  recognizing  in  the  prime  wit  of  the  meeting  the  poor  devil 
author  whom  I  had  remarked  at  the  booksellers'  dinner  for  his 
promising  face  and  his  complete  taciturnity.  Matters,  how- 
ever, were  entirely  changed  with  him.  There  he  was  a  mere 
cypher :  here  he  was  lord  of  the  ascendant ;  the  choice  spirit, 
the  dominant  genius.  He  sat  at  the  head  of  the  table  with  his 
bat  on,  and  an  eye  beaming  even  more  luminously  than  his 
nose.  He  had  a  quiz  and  a  fillip  for  every  one,  and  a  good 
tiling  on  every  occasion.  Nothing  could  be  said  or  done  with- 
out eliciting  a  spark  from  him ;  and  I  solemnly  declare  I  have 
heard  much  worse  wit  even  from  noblemen.  His  jokes,  it 
must  be  confessed,  were  rather  wet,  but  they  suited  the  circle 
in  which  he  presided.  The  company  were  in  that  maudlin 
mood  when  a  little  wit  goes  a  great  way.  Every  time  he 
opened  his  lips  there  was  sure  to  be  a  roar,  and  sometimes 
before  he  had  time  to  speak. 


THE  CLtTB  OF  QUEER    FELLOWS.  77 

We  were  fortunate  enough  to  enter  in  time  for  a  glee  com- 
posed by  Mm  expressly  for  the  club,  and  which  he  sang  with 
two  boon  companions,  who  would  have  been  worthy  subjects 
for  Hogarth's  pencil.  As  they  were  each  provided  with  a 
written  copy,  I  was  enabled  to  procure  the  reading  of  it. 

Merrily,  merrily  push  round  the  glass, 

And  merrily  troll  the  glee, 
For  he  who  won't  drink  till  he  wink  is  an  ass, 

So  neighbor  I  drink  to  thee. 
Merrily,  merrily  puddle  thy  nose, 

Until  it  right  rosy  shall  be; 
For  a  jolly  red  nose,  I  speak  under  the  rose, 

Is  a  sign  of  good  company. 

We  waited  until  the  party  broke  up,  and  no  one  but  the  wit 
remained.  He  sat  at  the  table  with  his  legs  stretched  under  it, 
and  wide  apart ;  his  hands  in  his  breeches  pockets ;  his  head 
drooped  upon  his  breast ;  and  gazing  with  lack-lustre  counte- 
nance on  an  empty  tankard.  His  gayety  was  gone,  his  fire 
completely  quenched. 

My  companion  approached  and  startled  him  from  his  fit  of 
brown  study,  introducing  himself  on  the  strength  of  their  hav- 
ing dined  together  at  the  booksellers'. 

"By  the  way,"  said  he,  "it  seems  to  me  I  have  seen  you 
before;  your  face  is  surely  the  face  of  an  old  acquaintance, 
though  for  the  life  of  me  I  cannot  tell  where  I  have  known 
you." 

"Very  likely,"  said  he  with  a  smile;  "many  of  my  old 
friends  have  forgotten  me.  Though,  to  tell  the  truth,  my 
memory  in  this  instance  is  as  bad  as  your  own.  If,  however, 
it  will  assist  yom-  recollection  in  any  way,  my  name  is  Thomas 
Dribble,  at  your  service." 

"What,  Tom  Dribble,  who  was  at  old  Birchell's  school  in 
Warwickshire?" 

"The  same,"  said  the  other,  coolly.  "Why,  then  we  are  old 
schoolmates,  though  it's  no  wonder  you  don't  recollect  me.  I 
was  your  junior  by  several  years;  don't  you  recollect  little 
Jack  Buckthorne?" 

Here  then  ensued  a  scene  of  school-fellow  recognition ;  and  a 
world  of  talk  about  old  school  times  and  school  pranks.  Mr. 
Dribble  ended  by  observing,  with  a  heavy  sigh,  ' '  that  times 
were  sadly  changed  since  those  days. " 

"Faith,  Mr.  Dribble,"  said  I,  "you  seem  quite  a  different 
man  here  from  what  y<  >u  were  at  dinner.     I  had  no  idea  that 


/  U  / 1&  OF  A    TftA  YF.I  i.ru 

you  had  so  much  stuff  in  you.     There  you  were  all  silence ;  but 
here  you  absolutely  keep  the  table  in  a  roar. " 

"  Ah,  my  dear  sir,"  replied  he,  with  a  shake  of  the  head  and 
a  shrug  of  the  shoulder,  "I'm  a  mere  glow-worm.  I  never 
shine  by  daylight.  Besides,  it's  a  hard  thing  for  a  poor  devil 
of  an  author  to  shine  at  the  table  of  a  rich  bookseller.  Who  do 
you  think  would  laugh  at  any  thing  I  could  say,  when  I  had 
some  of  the  current  wits  of  the  day  about  me^  But  here 
though  a  poor  devil,  I  am  among  still  poorer  devils  than  my- 
self ;  men  who  look  up  to  me  as  a  man  of  letters  and  a  bel  esprit, 
and  all  my  jokes  pass  as  sterling  gold  from  the  mint/' 

'You  surely  do  yourself  injustice,  sir,"  said  I;  "I  have  cer- 
tainly heard  more  good  things  from  you  this  evening  than  from 
any  of  those  beaux  esprits  by  whom  you  appear  to  have  been 
so  daunted." 

"Ah,  sir!  but  they  have  luck  on  their  side;  they  are  in  the 
fashion — there's  nothing  like  being  in  fashion.  A  man  that 
has  once  got  his  character  up  for  a  wit,  is  always  sure  of  a 
laugh,  say  what  he  may.  He  may  utter  as  much  nonsense  as 
lie  pleases,  and  all  will  pass  current.  No  one  stops  to  question 
the  coin  of  a  rich  man;  but  a  poor  devil  cannot  pass  oft  cither  a 
joke  or  a  guinea,  without  its  being  examined  on  both  sides. 
Wit  and  coin  are  always  doubted  with  a  threadbare  coat. 

"For  my  part,"  continued  he.  giving  his  hat  a  twitch  a  little 
more  on  one  side,  i4for  my  part,  I  hate  your  fine  dinners; 
there's  nothing,  sir,  like  the  freedom  of  a  chop-house.  I'd 
rather,  any  time,  have  my  steak  and  tankard  among  my  own 
set,  than  drink  claret  and  eat  venison  with  your  cursed  civil, 
elegant  company,  who  never  laugh  at  a  good  joke  from  a  poor 
devil,  for  fear  of  its  being  vulgar.  A  good  joke  grows  in  a  wet 
soil;  it  flourishes  in  low  places,  but  withers  on  your  d— d  high, 
dry  grounds.  I  once  kept  high  company,  sir,  until  I  nearly 
ruined  myself ;  I  grew  so  dull,  and  vapid,  and  genteel.  Noth 
ing  saved  me  but  being  arrested  by  my  landlady  and  thrown 
into  prison ;  where  a  course  of  catch-clubs,  eight-penny  ale,  and 
poor-devil  company,  manured  my  mind  and  brought  it  back  to 
itself  again." 

As  it  was  now  growing  late  we  parted  for  the  evening; 
though  I  felt  anxious  to  know  more  of  this  practical  philoso- 
pher. I  was  glad,  therefore,  when  Buokthorne  proposed  to 
have  another  meeting  to  talk  over  old  school  times,  and  inquired 
his  school-mate's  address.  The  latter  seemed  at  first  a  little 
shy  of  naming  his  lodgings ;  but  suddenly  assuming  an  air  of 


THE  CLUB  OF  QUEER  FELLOWS.  79 

hardihood— " Green  Arbour  court,  sir,"  exclaimed  he— "num- 
ber —  in  Green  Arbour  court.  You  must  know  the  place. 
Classic  ground,  sir !  classic  ground !  It  was  there  Goldsmith 
wrote  his  Vicar  of  Wakefield.  I  always  like  to  live  in  literary 
haunts." 

I  was  amused  with  this  whimsical  apology  for  shabby  quar- 
ters. On  our  way  homewards  Buckthorne  assured  me  that 
this  Dribble  had  been  the  prime  wit  and  great  wag  of  the  school 
in  their  boyish  days,  and  one  of  those  unlucky  urchins  denomi- 
nated bright  geniuses.  As  he  perceived  me  curious  respecting 
his  old  school-mate,  he  promised  to  take  me  with  him  in  his 
proposed  visit  to  Green  Arbour  court. 

A  few  mornings  afterwards  he  called  upon  me,  and  we  set 
forth  on  our  expedition.  He  led  me  through  a  variety  of 
singular  alleys,  and  courts,  and  blind  passages ;  for  he  appeared 
to  be  profoundly  versed  in  all  the  intricate  geography  of  the 
metropolis.  At  length  we  came  out  upon  Fleet  Market,  and 
traversing  it,  turned  up  a  narrow  street  to  the  bottom  of  a  long 
steep  flight  of  stone  steps,  named  Break-neck  Stairs.  These, 
he  told  me,  led  up  to  Green  Arbour  court,  and  that  down  them 
poor  Goldsmith  might  many  a  time  have  risked  his  neck. 
When  we  entered  the  court,  I  could  not  but  smile  to  think  in 
what  out-of-the-way  corners  genius  produces  her  bantlings! 
And  the  muses,  those  capricious  dames,  who,  forsooth,  so  often 
refuse  to  "visit  palaces,  and  deny  a  single  smile  to  votaries  in 
splendid  studies  and  gilded  drawing-rooms,— what  holes  and 
burrows  will  they  frequent  to  lavish  their  favors  on  some  ragged 
disciple ! 

This  Green  Arbour  court  I  found  to  be  a  small  square  of  tall 
and  miserable  houses,  the  very  intestines  of  which  seemed 
turned  inside  out,  to  judge  from  the  old  garments  and  frippery 
that  fluttered  from  every  window.  It  appeared  to  be  a  region 
of  washerwomen,  and  lines  were  stretched  about  the  little 
square,  gn  which  clothes  were  dangling  to  dry.  Just  as  we 
entered  the  square,  a  scuffle  took  place  between  two  viragos 
about  a  disputed  right  to  a  washtub,  and  immediately  the 
whole  community  was  in  a  hubbub.  Heads  in  mob  caps  popped 
out  of  every  window,  and  such  a  clamor  of  tongues  ensued 
that  I  was  fain  to  stop  my  ears.  Every  Amazon  took  part  with 
one  or  other  of  the  disputants,  and  brandished  her  arms  drip- 
ping with  soapsuds  and  fired  away  from  her  window  as  from 
the  embrazure  of  a  fortress;  while  the  swarms  of  children 
nestled  and  cradled  in  every  procreant  chamber  of  this  hive, 


80  TALES  OF  A    TRAVELLER 

waking  with  the  noise,  set  up  their  shrill  pipes  to  swell  the 
general  concert. 

Poor  Goldsmith !  what  a  time  must  he  have  had  of  it,  with 
his  quiet  disposition  and  nervous  habits,  penned  up  in  this  den 
of  noise  and  vulgarity.  How  strange  that  while  every  sight 
and  sound  was  sufficient  to  embitter  the  heart  and  fill  it  with 
misanthropy,  his  pen  should  be  dropping  the  honey  of  Hybla. 
Yet  it  is  more  than  probable  that  he  drew  many  of  his  inimita- 
ble pictures  of  low  life  from  the  scenes  which  surrounded  him 
in  this  abode.  The  circumstance  of  Mrs.  Tibbs  being  obliged 
to  wash  her  husband's  two  shirts  in  a  neighbor's  house,  who 
refused  to  lend  her  washtub,  may  have  been  no  sport  of  fancy, 
but  a  fact  passing  under  his  own  eye.  His  landlandy  may 
have  sat  for  the  picture,  and  Beau  Tibbs'  scanty  wardrobe  have 
been  a  fac-simile  of  his  own. 

It  was  with  some  difficulty  that  we  found  our  way  to  Drib- 
ble's lodgings.  They  were  up  two  pair  of  stairs,  in  a  room  that 
looked  upon  the  court,  and  when  we  entered  he  was  seated  on 
the  edge  of  his  bed,  writing  at  a  broken  table.  He  received  us, 
however,  with  a  free,  open,  poor  devil  air,  that  was  irresistible. 
It  is  true  he  did  at  first  appear  slightly  confused ;  buttoned  up 
his  waistcoat  a  little  higher  and  tucked  in  a  stray  frill  of  linen. 
But  he  recollected  himself  in  an  instant;  gave  a  half  swagger, 
half  leer,  as  he  stepped  forth  to  receive  us;  drew  a  three-legged 
stool  for  Mr.  Buckthorne;  pointed  me  to  a  lumbering  old 
damask  chair  that  looked  like  a  dethroned  monarch  in  exile, 
and  bade  us  welcome  to  his  garret. 

We  soon  got  engaged  in  conversation.  Buckthorne  and  he 
had  much  to  say  about  early  school  scenes ;  and  as  nothing 
opens  a  man's  heart  more  than  recollections  of  the  kind,  we 
soon  drew  from  him  a  brief  outline  of  his  literary  career. 


THE  POOE  DEVIL  AUTHOR 

I  began  life  unluckily  by  being  the  wag  and  bright  fellow  at 
school ;  and  I  had  the  farther  misfortune  of  becoming  the  great 
genius  of  my  native  village.  My  father  was  a  country  attor- 
ney, and  intended  that  I  should  succeed  him  in  business,  but 
I  had  too  much  genius  to  study,  and  he  was  too  fond  of  my 


T11E  POOR  DEVIL   AUTHOR.  SI 

genius  to  force  it  into  the  traces.  So  I  fell  into  bad  company 
and  took  to  bad  habits.  Do  not  mistake  me.  I  mean  that  I 
fell  into  the  company  of  village  literati  and  village  blues,  and 
took  to  writing  village  poetry. 

It  was  quite  the  fashion  in  the  village  to  be  literary.  We 
had  a  little  knot  of  choice  spirits  who  assembled  frequently 
together,  formed  ourselves  into  a  Literary,  Scientific,  and 
Philosophical  Society,  and  fancied  ourselves  the  most  learned 
philos  in  existence.  Every  one  had  a  great  character  assigned 
him,  suggested  by  some  casual  habit  or  affectation.  One  heavy 
fellow  drank  an  enormous  quantity  of  tea ;  rolled  in  his  arm- 
chair, talked  sententiously,  pronounced  dogmatically,  and  was 
considered  a  second  Dr.  Johnson ;  another,  who  happened  to  be 
a  curate,  uttered  coarse  jokes,  wrote  doggerel  rhymes,  and  was 
the  Swift  of  our  association.  Thus  we  had  also  our  Popes  and 
Goldsmiths  and  Addisons,  and  a  blue-stocking  lady,  whose 
drawing-room  we  frequented,  who  corresponded  about  nothing 
with  all  the  world,  and  wrote  letters  with  the  stiffness  and  for- 
mality of  a  printed  book,  was  cried  up  as  another  Mrs.  Monta- 
gu. I  was,  by  common  consent,  the  juvenile  prodigy,  the 
poetical  youth,  the  great  genius,  the  pride  and  hope  of  the 
village,  through  whom  it  was  to  become  one  day  as  celebrated 
as  Stratford-on-Avon. 

My  father  died  and  left  me  his  blessing  and  his  business. 
His  blessing  brought  no  money  into  my  pocket ;  and  as  to  his 
buisness  it  soon  deserted  me :  for  I  was  busy  writing  poetry, 
and  could  not  attend  to  law ;  and  my  clients,  though  they  had 
great  respect  for  my  talents,  had  no  faith  in  a  poetical  attorney. 

I  lost  my  business  therefore,  spent  my  money,  and  finished 
my  poem.  It  was  the  Pleasures  of  Melancholy,  and  was  cried 
up  to  the  skies  by  the  whole  circle.  The  Pleasures  of  Imagina- 
tion, the  Pleasures  of  Hope,  and  the  Pleasures  of  Memory, 
though  each  had  placed  its  author  in  the  first  rank  of  poets, 
were  blank  prose  in  comparison.  Our  Mrs.  Montagu  would  cry 
over  it  from  beginning  to  end.  It  was  pronounced  by  all  the 
members  of  the  Literary,  Scientific,  and  Philosophical  Society 
the  greatest  poem  of  the  age,  and  all  anticipated  the  noise  it 
would  make  in  the  great  world.  There  was  not  a  doubt  but 
the  London  booksellers  would  be  mad  after  it,  and  the  only 
fear  of  my  friends  was,  that  I  would  make  a  sacrifice  by  sell- 
ing it  too  cheap.  Every  time  they  talked  the  matter  over  they 
increased  the  price.  They  reckoned  up  the  great  sums  given 
for  the  poems  of  certain  popular  writers,  and  determined  that 


82  TALKS  OF  A   TEA  VELLER. 

mine  was  worth  more  than  all  put  together,  and  ought  to  be 
paid  for  accordingly.  For  my  part,  I  was  modest  in  my  ex- 
pectations, and  determined  that  I  would  be  satisfied  with  a 
thousand  guineas.  So  I  put  my  poem  in  my  pocket  and  set  off 
for  London. 

My  journey  was  joyous.  My  heart  was  light  as  my  purse, 
and  my  head  full  of  anticipations  of  fame  and  fortune.  With 
what  swelling  pride  did  I  cast  my  eyes  upon  old  London  from 
the  heights  of  Highgate.  I  was  like  a  general  looking  down 
upon  a  place  he  expects  to  conquer.  The  great  metropolis  lay 
stretched  before  me,  buried  under  a  home-made  cloud  of  murky 
smoke,  that  wrapped  it  from  the  brightness  of  a  sunny  day, 
and  formed  for  it  a  kind  of  artificial  bad  weather.  At  the  out- 
skirts of  the  city,  away  to  the  west,  the  smoke  gradually 
decreased  until  all  was  clear  and  sunny,  and  the  view  stretched 
uninterrupted  to  the  blue  line  of  the  Kentish  Hills. 

My  eye  turned  fondly  to  where  the  mighty  cupola  of  St. 
Paul's  swelled  dimly  through  this  misty  chaos,  and  I  pictured 
to  myself  the  solemn  realm  of  learning  that  lies  about  its  base. 
How  soon  should  the  Pleasures  of  Melancholy  throw  this  world 
of  booksellers  and  printers  into  a  bustle  of  business  and  delight ! 
How  soon  should  I  hear  my  name  repeated  by  printers'  devils 
throughout  Pater  Noster  Row,  and  Angel  Court,  and  Ave 
Maria  Lane,  until  Amen  corner  should  echo  back  the  sound ! 

Arrived  in  town,  I  repaired  at  once  to  the  most  fashionable 
publisher.  Every  new  author  patronizes  him  of  course.  In 
fact,  it  had  been  determined  in  the  village  circle  that  he  should 
be  the  fortunate  man.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  vaingloriously  I 
walked  the  streets ;  my  head  was  in  the  clouds.  I  felt  the  airs 
of  heaven  playing  about  it,  and  fancied  it  already  encircled  by 
a  halo  of  literary  glory.  As  I  passed  by  the  windows  of  book- 
shops, I  anticipated  the  time  when  my  work  would  be  shining 
among  the  hotpressed  wonders  of  the  day;  and  my  face, 
scratched  on  copper,  or  cut  in  wood,  figuring  in  fellowship 
with  those  of  Scott  and  Byron  and  Moore. 

When  I  applied  at  the  publisher's  house  there  was  something 
in  the  loftiness  of  my  air,  and  the  dinginess  of  my  dress,  that 
struck  the  clerks  with  reverence.  They  doubtless  took  me  for 
some  person  of  consequence,  probably  a  digger  of  Greek  roots, 
or  a  penetrator  of  pyramids.  A  proud  man  in  a  dirty  shirt  is 
always  an  imposing  character  in  the  world  of  letters ;  one  must 
feel  intellectually  secure  before  he  can  venture  to  dress  shab- 
bily, none  but  a  great  scholar  or  a  great  genius  dares  to  be 


Poo$  DEVIL  m  rum;.  s:i 

dirty:  so  1  was  ushered  at  once  to  fcfce  sanctum  sanctorum  of 

this  high  priest  of  Minerva. 

The  bublishing  of  books  is  a  very  different  affair  now-a-days 
from  what  it  was  in  the  time  of  Bernard  Lintot.  I  found  the 
publisher  a  fashionably-dressed  man,  in  an  elegant  drawing- 
room,  furnished  with  sofas  and  portraits  of  celebrated  authors, 
and  cases  of  splendidly  bound  books.  He  was  writing  letters 
at  an  elegant  table.  This  was  transacting  business  in  style. 
The  place  seemed  suited  to  the  magnificent  publications  that 
issued  from  it.  I  rejoiced  at  the  choice  I  had  made  of  a  pub- 
lisher, for  I  always  liked  to  encourage  men  of  taste  and  spirit. 

I  stepped  up  to  the  table  with  the  lofty  poetical  port  that  I 
had  been  accustomed  to  maintain  in  our  village  circle ;  though 
I  threw  in  it  something  of  a  patronizing  air,  such  as  one  feels 
when  about  to  make  a  man's  fortune.  The  publisher  paused 
with  his  pen  in  Ins  hand,  and  seemed  waiting  in  mute  suspense 
to  know  what  was  to  be  announced  by  so  singular  an  appari- 
tion. 

I  put  him  at  his  ease  in  a  moment,  for  I  felt  that  I  had  but  to 
come,  see.  and  conquer.  I  made  known  my  name,  and  the 
name  of  my  poem;  produced  my  precious  roll  of  blotted  manu- 
script, laid  it  on  the  table  with  an  emphasis,  and  told  him  at 
once,  to  save  time  and  come  directly  to  the  point,  the  price 
was  one  thousand  guineas. 

I  had  given  him  no  time  to  speak,  nor  did  he  seem  so  in- 
clined. He  continued  looking  at  me  for  a  moment  with  an  air 
of  whimsical  perplexity ;  scanned  me  from  head  to  foot ;  looked 
down  at  the  manuscript,  then  up  again  at  me,  then  pointed  to 
a  chair ;  and  whistling  softly  to  himself,  went  on  writing  his 
letter. 

I  sat  for  some  time  waiting  his  reply,  supposing  he  was  mak- 
ing up  his  mind ;  but  he  only  paused  occasionally  to  take  a 
fresh  dip  of  ink ;  to  stroke  his  chin  or  the  tip  of  his  nose,  and 
then  resumed  his  writing.  It  was  evident  his  mind  was  in- 
tently occupied  upon  some  other  subject ;  but  I  had  no  idea 
that  any  other  subject  should  be  attended  to  and  my  poem  lie 
unnoticed  on  the  table.  I  had  supposed  that  every  thing 
would  make  way  for  the  Pleasures  of  Melancholy. 

My  gorge  at  length  rose  within  me.  I  took  up  my  manu- 
script ;  thrust  it  into  my  pocket,  and  walked  out  of  the  room ; 
making  some  noise  as  I  went,  to.  let  my  departure  be  heard. 
The  publisher,  however,  was  too  much  busied  in  minor  con- 
cerns to  notice  it.     I  was  suffered  to  walk  down-stairs  with- 


84  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

out  being  called  back.  I  sallied  forth  into  the  street,  but  ttO 
clerk  was  sent  after  me,  nor  did  the  publisher  call  after  me 
from  the  drawing-room  window.  I  have  been  told  since,  that 
he  considered  me  either  a  madman  or  a  fool.  I  leave  you  to 
judge  now  much  he  was  in  the  wrong  in  his  opinion. 

When  I  turned  the  corner  my  crest  fell.  I  cooled  down  in 
my  pride  and  my  expectations,  and  reduced  my  terms  with 
the  next  bookseller  to  whom  I  applied.  I  had  no  better  suc- 
cess: nor  with  a  third:  nor  with  a  fourth.  I  then  desired  the 
booksellers  to  make  an  offer  themselves;  but  the  deuce  an 
offer  would  they  make.  They  told  me  poetry  was  a  mere  drug ; 
everybody  wrote  poetry ;  the  market  was  overstocked  with  it. 
And  then,  they  said,  the  title  of  my  poem  was  not  taking:  that 
pleasures  of  all  kinds  were  worn  threadbare ;  nothing  but  hor- 
rors did  now-a-days,  and  even  these  were  almost  worn  out. 
Tales  of  pirates,  robbers,  and  bloody  Turks  might  answer  toler- 
ably well;  but  then  they  must  come  from  some  established 
well-known  name,  or  the  public  would  not  look  at  them. 

At  last  I  offered  to  leave  my  poem  with  a  bookseller  to  read 
it  and  judge  for  himself.  "  Why,  really,  my  dear  Mr. — a— a — 
I  forget  your  name,"  said  he,  cutting  an  eye  at  my  rusty  coat 
and  shabby  gaiters,  "  really,  sir,  we  are  so  pressed  with  busi- 
ness just  now,  and  have  so  many  manuscripts  on  hand  to 
read,  that  we  have  not  time  to  look  at  any  new  production, 
but  if  you  can  call  again  in  a  week  or  two,  or  say  the  middle 
of  next  month,  we  may  be  able  to  look  over  your  writings  and 
give  you  an  answer.  Don't  forget,  the  month  after  next- 
good  morning,  sir — happy  to  see  you  any  time  you  are  passing 
this  way" — so  saying  he  bowed  me  out  in  the  civilest  way 
imaginable.  In  short,  sir,  instead  of  an  eager  competition  to 
secure  my  poem  I  could  not  even  get  it  read  !  In  the  mean 
time  I  was  harassed  by  letters  from  my  friends,  wanting  to 
know  when  the  work  was  to  appear ;  who  was  to  be  my  pub- 
lisher ;  but  above  allthings  warning  me  not  to  let  it  go  too  cheap. 

There  was  but  one  alternative  left.  I  determined  to  publish 
the  poem  myself;  and  to  have  my  triumph  over  the  book- 
sellers, when  it  should  become  the  fashion  of  the  day.  I  ac- 
cordingly published  the  Pleasures  of  Melancholy  and  ruined 
myself.  Excepting  the  copies  sent  to  the  reviews,  and  to  my 
friends  in  the  country,  not  one,  I  believe,  ever  left  the  book- 
seller's warehouse.  The  printer's  bill  drained  my  purse,  and 
the  only  notice  that  was  taken  of  my  work  was  contained  in 
the  advertisements  paid  for  by  myself. 


////•:  poor  devil  a  union.  85 

I  could  have  borne  all  this,  and  have  attributed  it  as  usual  to 
the  mismanagement  of  the  publisher,  or  the  want  of  taste  in  the 
public:  and  could  have  made  the  usual  appeal  to  posterity: 
but  my  village  friends  would  not  let  me  rest  in  quiet.  They 
were  picturing  me  to  themselves  feasting  with  the  great,  c 
muiiing  with  the  literary,  and  in  the  high  course  of  fortune  and 
renown.  Every  little  while,  some  one  came  to  me  with  a  letter 
of  introduction  from  the  village  circle,  recommending  him  to 
my  attentions,  and  requesting  that  I  would  make  him  known 
in  society ;  with  a  hint  that  an  introduction  to  the  house  of  a 
celebrated  literary  nobleman  would  be  extremely  agreeable. 

I  determined,  therefore,  to  change  my  lodgings,  drop  my  cor- 
respondence, and  disappear  altogether  from  the  view  of  my 
village  admirers.  Besides,  I  was  anxious  to  make  one  more 
poetic  attempt.  I  was  by  no  means  disheartened  by  the  failure 
of  my  first.  My  poem  was  evidently  too  didactic.  The  public- 
was  wise  enough.  It  no  longer  read  for  instruction.  ' '  They 
want  horrors,  do  they?"  said  I,  "I'faith,  then  they  shall  have 
enough  of  them."  So  I  looked  out  for  some  quiet  retired  place, 
where  I  might  be  out  of  reach  of  my  friends,  and  have  leisure 
to  cook  up  some  delectable  dish  of  poetical  "hell-broth." 

I  had  some  difficulty  in  finding  a  place  to  my  mind,  when 
chance  threw  me  in  the  way  of  Canonbury  Castle.  It  is  an 
ancient  brick  tower,  hard  by  "merry  Islington;"  the  remains 
of  a  hunting-seat  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  where  she  took  the  plea- 
sures of  the  country,  when  the  neighborhood  was  all  wood- 
land. What  gave  it  particular  interest  in  my  eyes,  was  the 
circumstance  that  it  had  been  the  residence  of  a  poet.  It  was 
here  Goldsmith  resided  when  he  wrote  his  Deserted  "Village. 
I  was  shown  the  very  apartment.  It  was  a  relique  of  the 
original  style  of  the  castle,  with  pannelled  wainscots  and  gothic 
windows.  I  was  pleased  with  its  air  of  antiquity,  and  with'  its 
having  been  the  residence  of  poor  Goldy .  ' '  Goldsmith  was  a 
pretty  poet,"  said  I  to  myself,  "a  very  pretty  poet;  though 
rather  of  the  old  school.  He  did  not  think  and  feel  so  strongly 
as  is  the  fashion  now-a-days ;  but  had  he  lived  in  these  times 
of  hot  hearts  and  hot  heads,  he  would  have  written  quite  dif- 
ferently." 

In  a  few  days  I  was  quietly  established  in  my  new  quarters ; 
my  books  all  arranged,  my  writing  desk  placed  by  a  window 
looking  out  into  the  field:  and  I  felt  as  snug  as  Robinson 
Crusoe,  when  he  had  finished  his  bower.  For  several  days  I 
enjoyed  all  the  novelty  of  change  and  the  charms  which  grace 


1    TRAVELLER. 

a  new  lodgings  before  one  has  found  out  their  defects.  1 
rambled  about  the  fields  where  I  fancied  Goldsmith  had  ram- 
bled. I  explored  merry  Islington ;  ate  my  solitary  dinner  at 
the  Black  Bull,  which  according  to  tradition  was  a  country 
seat  of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  and  would  sit  and  sip  my  wine  and 
muse  on  old  times  in  a  quaint  old  room,  where  many  a  council 
had  been  held. 

All  this  did  very  well  for  a  few  days :  I  was  stimulated  by 
novelty ;  inspired  by  the  associations  awakened  in  my  mind  by 
these  curious  haunts,  and  began  to  think  I  felt  the  spirit  of 
composition  stirring  within  me;  but  Sunday  came,  and  with  it 
the  Avhole  city  world,  swarming  about  Canonbury  Castle.  I 
could  not  open  my  window  but  I  was  stunned  with  shouts  and 
noises  from  the  cricket  ground.  The  late  quiet  road  beneath 
my  window  was  alive  with  the  tread  of  feet  and  clack  of 
tongues ;  and  to  complete  my  misery,  I  found  that  my  quiet 
retreat  was  absolutely  a  ''show  house!"  the  tower  and  its  con- 
tents  being  shown  to  strangers  at  sixpence  a  head. 

There  was  a  perpetual  tramping  up-stairs  of  citizens  and 
their  families,  to  look  about  the  country  from  the  top  of  the 
tower,  and  to  take  a  peep  at  the  city  through  the  telescope,  to 
try  if  they  could  discern  their  own  chimneys.  And  then,  in 
the  midst  of  a  vein  of  thought,  or  a  moment  of  inspiration,  I 
was  interrupted,  and  all  my  ideas  put  to  flight,  by  my  intolera- 
ble landlady's  tapping  at  the  door,  and  asking  me,  if  I  would 
1 '  jist  please  to  let  a  lady  and  gentleman  come  in  to  take  a  look 
at  Mr.  Goldsmith's  room. " 

If  you  know  anything  what  an  author's  study  is,  and  what 
an  author  is  himself,  you  must  know  that  there  was  no  stand- 
ing this.  I  put  a  positive  interdict  on  my  room's  being  ex- 
hibited; but  then  it  was  shown  when  I  was  absent,  and  my 
papers  put  in  confusion;  and  on  returning  home  one  day,  I 
absolutely  found  a  cursed  tradesman  and  his  daughters  gaping 
over  my  manuscripts;  and  my  landlady  in  a  panic  at  my 
appearance.  I  tried  to  make  out  a  little  longer  by  taking  the 
key  in  my  pocket,  but  it  would  not  do.  I  overheard  mine 
hostess  one  day  telling  some  of  her  customers  on  the  stairs 
that  the  room  was  occupied  by  an  author,  who  was  always  in 
a  tantrum  if  interrupted ;  and  I  immediately  perceived,  by  a 
slight  noise  at  the  door,  that  they  were  peeping  at  me  through 
the  key-hole.  By  the  head  of  Apollo,  but  this  was  quite  too 
much !  with  all  my  eagerness  for  fame,  and  my  ambition  of 
the  stare  of  the  million,  I  had  no  idea  of  being  exhibited  by 


THE  iJUOR  DEVIL   AUTHOR.  87 

retail,  at  sixpence  a  head,  and  that  through  a  key-hole.  So  I 
bade  adieu  to  Canonbury  Castle,  merry  Islington,  and  the 
haunts  of  poor  Goldsmith,  without  having  advanced  a  single 
line  in  my  labors. 

My  next  quarters  were  at  a  small  white-washed  cottage, 
which  stands  not  far  from  Hempstead,  just  on  the  brow  of  a 
hill,  looking  over  Chalk  farm,  and  Camden  town,  remarkable 
for  the  rival  houses  of  Mother  Red  Cap  and  Mother  Black  Cap ; 
and  so  across  Crackskull  common  to  the  distant  city. 

The  cottage  is  in  no  wise  remarkable  in  itself ;  but  I  regarded 
it  with  reverence,  for  it  had  been  the  asylum  of  a  persecuted 
author.  Hither  poor  Steele  had  retreated  and  lain  perdue 
when  persecuted  by  creditors  and  bailiffs;  those  immemorial 
plagues  of  authors  and  free-spirited  gentlemen ;  and  here  he  had 
written  many  numbers  of  the  Spectator.  It  was  from  hence, 
too,  that  he  had  despatched  those  little  notes  to  his  lady,  so 
full  of  affection  and  whimsicality;  in  which  the  fond  husband, 
the  careless  gentleman,  and  the  shifting  spendthrift,  were  so 
oddly  blended.  I  thought,  as  I  first  eyed  the  window4  of  his 
apartment,  that  I  could  sit  within  it  and  write  volumes. 

No  such  thing!  It  was  haymaking  season,  and,  as  ill  luck 
would  have  it,  immediately  opposite  the  cottage  was  a  little 
alehouse  with  the  sign  of  the  load  of  hay.  Whether  it  was 
there  in  Steele's  time  or  not  I  cannot  say;  but  it  set  all  attempt 
at  conception  or  inspiration  at  defiance.  It  was  the  resort  of 
all  the  Irish  haymakers  who  mow  the  broad  fields  in  the  neigh- 
borhood; and  of  drovers  and  teamsters  who  travel  that  road. 
Here  would  they  gather  in  the  endless  summer  twilight,  or  by 
the  light  of  the  harvest  moon,  and  sit  round  a  table  at  the 
door;  and  tipple,  and  laugh,  and  quarrel,  and  fight,  and  sing 
drowsy  songs,  and  dawdle  away  the  hours  until  the  deep 
solemn  notes  of  St.  Paul's  clock  would  warn  the  varlets  home. 

In  the  day-time  I  was  still  less  able  to  write.  It  was  broad 
summer.  The  haymakers  were  at  work  in  the  fields,  and 
the  perfume  of  the  new  -  mown  hay  brought  with  it  the 
recollection  of  my  native  fields.  So  instead  of  remaining  in 
my  room  to  write,  I  went  wandering  about  Primrose  Hill  and 
Hempstead  Heights  and  Shepherd's  Field,  and  all  those  Arca- 
dian scenes  so  celebrated  by  London  bards.  I  cannot  tell  you 
how  many  delicious  hours  I  have  passed  lying  on  the  cocks  of 
new-mown  hay,  on  the  pleasant  slopes  of  some  of  those  hills, 
inhaling  the  fragrance  of  the  fields,  while  the  summer  fly 
buzzed  above  me,  or  the  grasshopper  leaped  into  my  bosom; 


S8  TALES  OF  A    TRA  VELLER. 

and  how  I  have  gazed  with  half-shut  eye  upon  the  smoky  mass 
of  London,  and  listened  to  the  distant  sound  of  its  population, 
and  pitied  the  poor  sons  of  earth  toiling  in  its  bowels,  like 
Gnomes  in  "the  dark  gold  mine.'' 

People  may  say  what  they  please  about  Cockney  pastorals ; 
but  after  all,  there  is  a  vast  deal  of  rural  beauty  about  the 
western  vicinity  of  London;  and  any  one  that  has  looked 
down  upon  the  valley  of  Westend,  with  its  soft  bosom  of  green 
pasturage,  lying  open  to  the  south,  and  dotted  with  cattle ;  the 
steeple  of  Hempstead  rising  among  rich  groves  on  the  brow  of 
the  hill,  and  the  learned  height  of  Harrow  in  the  distance; 
will  confess  that  never  has  he  seen  a  more  absolutely  rural 
landscape  in  the  vicinity  of  a  great  metropolis. 

Still,  however,  I  found]  myself  not  a  whit  the  better  off  for 
my  frequent  change  of  lodgings ;  and  I  began  to  discover  that 
in  literature,  as  in  trade,  the  old  proverb  holds  good,  ' '  a  roll- 
ing stone  gathers  no  moss." 

The  tranquil  beauty  of  the  country  played  the  very  venge- 
ance with  me.  I  could  not  mount  my  fancy  into  the  termagant 
vein.  I  could  not  conceive,  amidst  the  smiling  landscape,  a 
scene  of  blood  and  murder ;  and  the  smug  citizens  in  breeches 
and  gaiters,  put  all  ideas  of  heroes  and  bandits  out  of  my  brain. 
I  could  thing  of  nothing  but  dulcet  subjects.  "The  pleasures 
of  spring1' — "the  pleasures  of  solitude" — "the  pleasures  of 
tranquillity"— "the  pleasures  of  sentiment"— nothing  but  pleas- 
ures ;  and  I  had  the  painful  experience  of  ' '  the  pleasures  of 
melancholy"  too  strongly  in  my  recollection  to  be  beguiled  by 
them. 

Chance  at  length  befriended  me.  I  had  frequently  in  my 
ramblings  loitered  about  Hempstead  Hill ;  which  is  a  kind  of 
Parnassus  of  the  metropolis.  At  such  times  I  occasionally 
took  my  dinner  at  Jack  Straw's  Castle.  It  is  a  country  inn  so 
named.  The  very  spot  where  that  notorious  rebel  and  his  fol- 
lowers held  their  council  of  war.  It  is  a  favorite  resort  of  citi- 
zens when  rurally  inclined,  as  it  commands  fine  fresh  air  and  a 
good  view  of  the  city. 

I  sat  one  day  in  the  public  room  of  this  inn,  ruminating  over 
a  beafsteak  and  a  pint  of  port,  when  my  imagination  kindled 
up  with  ancient  and  heroic  images.  I  had  long  wanted  a 
theme  and  a  hero ;  both  suddenly  broke  upon  my  mind ;  I  de- 
termined to  write  a  poem  on  the  history  of  Jack  Straw.  I  was 
so  full  of  my  subject  that  I  was  fearful  of  being  anticipated. 
I  wondered  that  none  of  the  poets  of  the  day,  in  their  re' 


THE  POOR  DEVIL  AUTHOR.  89 

searches  after  ruffian  heroes,  had  ever  thought  of  Jack  Straw. 
I  went  to  work  pell-mell,  blotted  several  sheets  of  paper  with 
choice  floating  thoughts,  and  battles,  and  descriptions,  to  be 
ready  at  a  moment's  warning.  In  a  few  days'  time  I  sketched 
out  the  skeleton  of  my  poem,  and  nothing  was  wanting  but  to 
give  it  flesh  and  blood.  I  used  to  take  my  manuscript  and 
stroll  about  Caen  Wood,  and  read  aloud ;  and  would  dine  at  the 
castle,  by  way  of  keeping  up  the  vein  of  thought. 

I  was  taking  a  meal  there,  one  day,  at  a  rather  late  hour,  in 
the  public  room.  There  was  no  other  company  but  one  man, 
who  sat  enjoying  his  pint  of  port  at  a  window,  and  noticing 
the  passers-by.  He  was  dressed  in  a  green  shooting  coat.  His 
countenance  was  strongly  marked.  He  had  a  hooked  nose,  a 
romantic  eye,  excepting  that  it  had  something  of  a  squint ;  and 
altogether,  as  I  thought,  a  poetical  style  of  head.  I  was  quite 
taken  with  the  man,  for  you  must  know  I  am  a  little  of  a 
physiognomist :  I  set  him  down  at  once  for  either  a  poet  or  a 
philosopher. 

As  I  like  to  make  new  acquaintances,  considering  every  man 
a  volume  of  human  nature,  I  soon  fell  into  conversation  with 
the  stranger,  who,  I  was  pleased  to  find,  was  by  no  means  dif- 
ficult of  access.  After  I  had  dined,  I  joined  him  at  the  win- 
dow, and  we  became  so  sociable  that  I  proposed  a  bottle  of 
wine  together ;  to  which  he  most  cheerfully  assented. 

I  was  too  full  of  my  poem  to  keep  long  quiet  on  the  subject, 
and  began  to  talk  about  the  origin  of  the  tavern,  and  the  his- 
tory of  Jack  Straw.  I  found  my  new  acquaintance  to  be  per- 
fectly at  home  on  the  topic,  and  to  jump  exactly  with  my  hu- 
mor in  every  respect.  I  became  elevated  by  the  wiue  and  the 
conversation.  In  the  fullness  of  an  author's  feelings,  I  told  him 
of  my  projected  poem,  and  repeated  some  passages ;  and  he  was 
in  raptures.     He  was  evidently  of  a  strong  poetical  turn. 

"  Sir,"  said  he,  filling  my  glass  at  the  same  time,  "  our  poets 
don't  look  at  home.  I  don't  see  why  we  need  go  out  of  old 
England  for  robbers  and  rebels  to  write  about.  I  like  your  Jack 
Straw,  sir.  He's  a  home-made  hero.  I  like  him,  sir.  I  like 
him  exceedingly.  He's  English  to  the  back  bone,  damme. 
Give  me  honest  old  England,  after  all ;  them's  my  sentiments, 
sir!" 

"I  honor  your  sentiments,"  cried  I  zealously.  "They  are 
exactly  my  own.  An  English  ruffian  for  poetry  is  as  good  a 
ruffian  for  poetry  as  any  in  Italy  or  Germany,  or  the  Archi- 
pelago; but  it  is  hard  to  make  our  poets  think  so." 


90  TALES  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

"  More  shame  for  them !"  replied  the  man  in  green.  "  What 
a  plague  would  they  have  ?"  What  have  we  to  do  with  their 
Archipelagos  of  Italy  and  Germany?  Haven't  we  heaths  and 
commons  and  high-ways  on  our  own  little  island?  Aye,  and 
stout  fellows  to  pad  the  hoof  over  them  too?  Come,  sir,  my 
service  to  you — I  agree  with  you  perfectly." 

"Poets  in  old  times  had  right  notions  on  this  subject,"  con- 
tinued I;  "  witness  the  fine  old  ballads  about  Robin  Hood,  Allen 
A'Dale,  and  other  staunch  blades  of  yore." 

"Right,  sir,  right,"  interrupted  he.  "Robin  Hood!  He  was 
the  lad  to  cry  stand!  to  a  man,  and  never  flinch." 

"Ah.  sir/'  said  I,  "they  had  famous  bands  of  robbers  in  the 
good  old  times.  Those  were  glorious  poetical  days.  The  merry 
crew  of  Sherwood  Forest,  who  led  such  a  roving  picturesque 
life,  '  under  the  greenwood  tree. '  I  have  often  wished  to  visit 
their  haunts,  and  tread  the  scenes  of  the  exploits  of  Friar  Tuck, 
and  Clym  of  the  Clough,  and  Sir  William  of  Coudeslie." 

"  Nay,  sir,"  said  the  gentleman  in  green,  "we  have  had  sev- 
eral very  pretty  gangs  since  their  day.  Those  gallant  dogs  that 
kept  about  the  great  heaths  in  the  neighborhood  of  London ; 
about  Bagshot,  and  Hounslow,  and  Black  Heath,  for  instance — 
come,  sir,  my  service  to  you.     You  don't  drink." 

"I  suppose,"  said  I,  emptying  my  glass— "  I  suppose  you 
have  heard  of  the  famous  Turpin,  who  was  bom  in  this  very 
village  of  Hempstead,  and  who  used  to  lurk  with  his  gang  in 
Epping  Forest,  about  a  hundred  years  since." 

"Have  I?"  cried  he — "to  be  sure  I  have!  A  hearty  old 
blade  that;  sound  as  pitch.  Old  Turpentine !— as  we  used  to 
call  him.     A  famous  fine  fellow,  sir." 

"Well,  sir,"  continued  I,  "I  have  visited  Waltham  Abbey, 
and  Chinkford  Church,  merely  from  the  stories  I  heard,  when 
a  boy,  of  his  exploits  there,  and  I  have  searched  Epping  Forest 
for  the  cavern  where  he  used  to  conceal  himself.  You  must 
know, "  added  I,  ' '  that  I  am  a  sort  of  amateur  of  highwaymen. 
They  were  dashing,  daring  fellows ;  the  last  apologies  that  we 
had  for  the  knight  errants  of  yore.  Ah,  sir!  the  country  has 
been  sinking  gradually  into  tameness  and  commonplace.  We 
are  losing  the  old  English  spirit.  The  bold  knights  of  the  post 
have  all  dwindled  down  into  lurking  footpads  and  sneaking 
pick-pockets.  There's  no  such  thing  as  a  dashing  gentleman- 
like robbery  committed  now-a-days  on  the  king's  highway.  A 
man  may  roll  from  one  end  of  England  to  the  other  in  a  drowsy 
coach  or  jingling  post-chaise  without  any  other  adventure  than 


THE  POOR  DEVIL  AUTHOR.  \)\ 

that  of  being  occasionally  overturned,  sleeping  in  damp  sheets, 
or  having  an  ill-cooked  dinner. 

' '  We  hear  no  more  of  pubhc  coaches  being  stopped  and  robbed 
by  a  well-mounted  gang  of  resolute  fellows  with  pistols  in  their 
hands  and  crapes  over  their  faces.  What  a  pretty  poetical  in- 
cident was  it  for  example  in  domestic  life,  for  a  family  car- 
riage, on  its  way  to  a  country  seat,  to  be  attacked  about  dusk ; 
the  old  gentleman  eased  of  his  purse  and  watch,  the  ladies  of 
their  necklaces  and  ear-rings,  by  a  politely-spoken  highwayman 
on  a  blood  mare,  who  afterwards  leaped  the  hedge  and  galloped 
across  the  country,  to  the  admiration  of  Miss  Carolina  the 
daughter,  who  would  write  a  long  and  romantic  account  of  the 
adventure  to  her  friend  Miss  Juliana  in  town.  Ah,  sir!  we 
meet  with  nothing  of  such  incidents  now-a-days." 

"That,  sir," — said  my  companion,  taking  advantage  of  a 
pause,  when  I  stopped  to  recover  breath  and  to  take  a  glass  of 
wine,  which  he  had  just  poured  out — "that,  sir,  craving  your 
pardon,  is  not  owing  to  any  want  of  old  English  pluck.  It  is 
the  effect  of  tins  cursed  system  of  banking.  People  do  not 
travel  with  bags  of  gold  as  they  did  formerly.  They  have 
post  notes  and  drafts  on  bankers.  To  rob  a  coach  is  like  catch- 
ing a  crow;  where  you  have  nothing  but  carrion  flesh  and 
feathers  for  your  pains.  But  a  coach  in  old  times,  sir,  was 
as  rich  as  a  Spanish  galleon.  It  turned  out  the  yellow  boys 
bravely;  and  a  private  carriage  was  a  cool  hundred  or  two 
at  least." 

I  cannot  express  how  much  I  was  delighted  with  the  sallies 
of  my  new  acquaintance.  He  told  me  that  he  often  frequented 
the  castle,  and  would  be  glad  to  know  more  of  me ;  and  I  prom- 
ised myself  many  a  pleasant  afternoon  with  him,  when  I  should 
read  him  my  poem,  as  it  proceeded,  and  benefit  by  his  remarks ; 
for  it  was  evident  he  had  the  true  poetical  feeling. 

"Come,  sir!"  said  he,  pushing  the  bottle,  "Damme,  I  like 
you! — You're  a  man  after  my  own  heart;  I'm  cursed  slow  in 
making  new  acquaintances  in  general.  One  must  stand  on  the 
reserve,  you  know.  But  when  I  meet  with  a  man  of  your  kid- 
ney, damme  my  heart  jumps  at  once  to  him.  Them's  my  sen- 
timents, sir.  Come,  sir,  here's  Jack  Straw's  health!  I  pre- 
sume one  can  drink  it  now-a-days  without  treason !" 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  said  I  gayly,  "and  Dick  Turpin's  into 
the  bargain !" 

"  Ah,  sir,"  said  the  man  in  green,  "those  are  the  kind  of  men 
for  poetry,     The  Newgate  kalendar,  sir!  the  Newgate  kalendar 


92  TALES   OF  A    2EAVKLLER. 

is  your  only  reading !  There's  the  place  to4ook  for  bold  deeds 
and  dashing  fellows." 

We  were  so  much  pleased  with  each  other  that  we  sat  until 
a  late  hour.  I  insisted  on  paying  the  bill,  for  both  my  purse 
and  my  heart  were  full ;  and  I  agreed  that  he  should  pay  the 
score  at  our  next  meeting.  As  the  coaches  had  all  gone  that 
run  between  Hempstead  and  London  he  had  to  return  on  foot, 
He  was  so  delighted  with  the  idea  of  my  poem  that  he  could 
talk  of  nothing  else.  He  made  me  repeat  such  passages  as  I 
could  remember,  and  though  I  did  it  in  a  very  mangled  man- 
ner, having  a  wretched  memory,  yet  he  was  in  raptures. 

Every  now  and  then  he  would  break  out  with  some  scrap 
which  he  would  misquote  most  terribly,  but  would  rub  his 
hands  and  exclaim,  "By  Jupiter,  that's  fine!  that's  noble! 
Damme,  sir,  if  I  can  conceive  how  you  hit  upon  such  ideas ! " 

I  must  confess  I  did  not  always  relish  his  misquotations, 
which  sometimes  made  absolute  nonsense  of  the  passages ;  but 
what  author  stands  upon  trifles  when  he  is  praised?  Never  had 
I  spent  a  more  delightful  evening.  I  did  not  perceive  how  the 
time  flew.  I  could  not  bear  to  separate,  but  continued  walking 
on,  arm  in  arm  with  him  past  my  lodgings,  through  Camden 
town,  and  across  Crackscull  Common,  talking  the  whole  way 
about  my  poem. 

When  we  were  half-way  across  the  common  he  interrupted 
me  in  the  midst  of  a  quotation  by  telling  me  that  this  had  been 
a  famous  place  for  footpads,  and  was  still  occasionally  infested 
by  them;  and  that  a  man  had  recently  been  shot  there  in 
attempting  to  defend  himself. 

"The  more  fool  he!"  cried  I.  "A  man  is  an  idiot  to  risk 
life,  or  even  limb,  to  save  a  paltry  purse  of  money.  It's  quite 
a  different  case  from  that  of  a  duel,  where  one's  honor  is  con- 
cerned. For  my  part, "  added  I,  "  I  should  never  think  of  mak  - 
ing  resistance  against  one  of  those  desperadoes." 

"Say  you  so?"  cried  my  friend  in  green,  turning  suddenly 
upon  me,  and  putting  a  pistol  to  my  breast,  ' '  Why,  then  have 
at  you,  my  lad !— come,  disburse !  empty !  unsack !" 

In  a  word,  I  found  that  the  muse  had  played  me  another  of 
her  tricks,  and  had  betrayed  me  into  the  hands  of  a  footpad. 
There  was  no  time  to  parley ;  he  made  me  turn  my  pockets 
inside  out ;  and  hearing  the  sound  of  distant  footsteps,  he  made 
one  fell  swoop  upon  purse,  watch,  and  all,  gave  me  a  thwack 
over  my  unlucky  pate  that  laid  me  sprawling  on  the  ground ; 
and  scampered  away  with  his  booty, 


THE  POOR  DEVIL   AUTHOR  93 

I  saw  no  more  of  niy  friend  in  green  until  a  year  or  two 
afterwards ;  when  I  caught  a  sight  of  his  poetical  countenance 
among  a  crew  of  scapegraces,  heavily  ironed,  who  were  on  the 
way  for  transportation.  He  recognized  me  at  once,  tipped  me 
an  impudent  wink,  and  asked  me  how  I  came  on  with  the  his- 
tory of  Jack  Straw's  castle. 

The  catastrophe  at  Crackscull  Common  put  an  end  to  my 
summers  campaign.  I  was  cured  of  my  poetical  enthusiasm 
for  rebels,  robbers,  and  highwaymen.  I  was  put  out  of  conceit 
of  my  subject,  and  what  was  worse,  I  was  lightened  of  my 
purse,  in  which  was  almost  every  farthing  I  had  in  the  world. 
So  I  abandoned  Sir  Richard  Steele's  cottage  in  despair,  and 
crept  into  less  celebrated,  though  no  less  poetical  and  airy 
lodgings  in  a  garret  in  town. 

I  see  you  are  growing  weary,  so  I  will  not  detain  you  with 
any  more  of  my  luckless  attempts  to  get  astride  of  Pegasus. 
Still  I  could  not  consent  to  give  up  the  trial  and  abandon  those 
dreams  of  renown  in  which  I  had  indulged.  How  should  I 
ever  be  able  to  look  the  literary  circle  of  my  native  village  in 
the  face,  if  I  were  so  completely  to  falsify  their  predictions. 
For  some  time  longer,  therefore,  I  continued  to  write  for  fame, 
and  of  course  was  the  most  miserable  dog  in  existence,  besides 
being  in  continual  risk  of  starvation. 

I  have  many  a  time  strolled  sorrowfully  along,  with  a  sad 
heart  and  an  empty  stomach,  about  five  o'clock,  and  looked 
wistfully  down  the  areas  in  the  west  end  of  the  town ;  and  seen 
through  the  kitchen  windows  the  fires  gleaming,  and  the  joints 
of  meat  turning  on  the  spits  and  dripping  with  gravy ;  and  the 
cook  maids  beating  up  puddings,  or  trussing  turkeys,  and  have 
felt  for  the  moment  that  if  I  could  but  have  the  run  of  one  of 
those  kitchens,  Apollo  and  the  muses  might  have  the  hungry 
heights  of  Parnassus  for  me.  Oh,  sir!  talk  of  meditations 
among  the  tombs— they  are  nothing  so  melancholy  as  the  medi- 
tations of  a  poor  devil  without  penny  in  pouch,  along  a  line  of 
kitchen  windows  towards  dinner-time. 

At  length,  when  almost  reduced  to  famine  and  despair,  the 
idea  all  at  once  entered  my  head,  that  perhaps  I  was  not  so 
clever  a  fellow  as  the  village  and  myself  had  supposed.  It  was 
the  salvation  of  me.  The  moment  the  idea  popped  into  my 
brain,  it  brought  conviction  and  comfort  with  it.  I  awoke  as 
from  a  dream.  I  gave  up  immortal  fame  to  those  who  could 
live  on  air;  took  to  writing  for  mere  bread,  and  have  ever  since 
'j'd  a  very  tolerable  life  of  it.    There  is  no  man  of  letters  so 


94  TALES   OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

much  at  his  case,  sir,  as  he  thac  has  no  character  to  gain  or 
lose.  I  had  to  train  myself  to  it  a  little,  however,  and  to  clip 
my  wings  short  at  first,  or  they  would  have  carried  me  up  into 
poetry  in  spite  of  myself.  So  I  determined  to  begin  by  the 
opposite  extreme,  and  abandoning  the  higher  regions  of  the 
craft,  I  came  plump  down  to  the  lowest,  and  turned  creeper. 

•'Creeper,"  interrupted  I,  "and  pray  what  is  that?"  Oh,  sir ! 
I  see  you  are  ignorant  of  the  language  of  the  craft ;  a  creeper 
is  one  who  furnishes  the  newspapers  with  paragraphs  at  so 
much  a  line,  one  that  goes  about  in  quest  of  misfortunes; 
attends  the  Bow-street  office ;  the  courts  of  justice  and  every 
other  den  of  mischief  and  iniquity.  We  are  paid  at  the  rate  of 
a  penny  a  line,  and  as  we  can  sell  the  same  paragraph  to  almost 
every  paper,  we  sometimes  pick  up  a  very  decent  day's  work. 
Now  and  then  the  muse  is  unkind,  or  the  day  uncommonly 
quiet,  and  then  we  rather  starve;  and  sometimes  the  uncon- 
scionable editors  will  clip  our  paragraphs  when  they  are  a  little 
too  rhetorical,  and  snip  off  twopence  or  threepence  at  a  go.  I 
have  many  a  time  had  my  pot  of  porter  snipped  off  of  my  din- 
ner in  this  way ;  and  have  had  to  dine  with  dry  lips.  However, 
I  cannot  complain.  I  rose  gradually  in  the  lower  ranks  of  the 
craft,  and  am  now,  I  think,  in  the  most  comfortable  region  of 
literature. 

"And  pray,"  said  I,  "what  may  you  be  at  present?" 
"At  present,"  said  he,  "I  am  a  regular  job  writer,  and  turn 
my  hand  to  anything.  I  work  up  the  writings  of  others  at  so 
much  a  sheet ;  turn  off  translations ;  write  second-rate  articles 
to  fill  up  reviews  and  magazines ;  compile  travels  and  voyages, 
and  furnish  theatrical  criticisms  for  the  newspapers.  All  this 
authorship,  you  perceive,  is  anonymous ;  it  gives  no  reputation, 
except  among  the  trade,  where  I  am  considered  an  author  of 
all  work,  and  am  always  sure  of  employ.  That's  the  only 
reputation  I  want.  I  sleep  soundly,  without  dread  of  duns  or 
critics,  and  leave  immortal  fame  to  those  that  choose  to  fret 
and  fight  about  it.  Take  my  word  for  it,  the  only  happy  author 
in  this  world  is  he  who  is  below  the  care  of  reputation." 


The  preceding  anecdotes  of  Buckthorne's  early  schoolmate, 
and  a  variety  of  peculiarities  which  I  had  remarked  in  him- 
self, gave  me  a  strong  curiosity  to  know  something  of  his  own 
history.  There  was  a  dash  of  careless  good  humor  about  him 
that  pleased  me  exceedingly,  and  at  times  a  whimsical  tinge 
of  melancholy  ran  through  his  humor  that  gave  it  an  addi 


THE    TOUNG    V.w    OF  GREAT  BXP1  95 

tional  relish.  He  had  evidently  bef  a  a  little  chilled  and  buf- 
feted by  fortune,  without  being  soured  thereby,  as  some  fruits 
become  mellower  and  sweeter,  from  having  been  bruised  or 
frost-bitten.  He  smiled  when  I  expressed  my  desire.  "I  have 
no  great  story,"  said  he,  >-to  relate.  A  mere  tissue  of  errors 
and  follies.  But,  such  as  it  is,  you  shall  have  one  epoch  of 
ir.  by  which  you  may  judge  of  the  rest/'  And  so,  without 
any  farther  prelude,  he  gave  me  the  following  anecdotes  of 
his  earlv  adventures. 


BUCKTHORNE.  OR  THE  YOUNG  MAN  OF  GREAT 
EXPECTATIONS. 

I  was  born  to  very  little  property,  but  to  great  expectations ; 
which  is  perhaps  one  of  the  most  unlucky  fortunes  that  a  man 
can  be  born  to.  My  father  was  a  country  gentleman,  the  last 
of  a  very  ancient  and  honorable,  but  decayed  family,  and 
resided  in  an  old  hunting  lodge  in  Warwickshire.  He  was  a 
keen  sportsman  and  lived  to  the  extent  of  his  moderate 
income,  so  that  I  had  little  to  expect  from  that  quarter ;  but 
then  I  had  a  rich  uncle  by  the  mother's  side,  a  penurious, 
accumulating  curmudgeon,  who  it  was  confidently  expected 
would  make  me  his  heir;  because  he  was  an  old  bachelor; 
because  I  was  named  after  him,  and  because  he  hated  all  the 
world  except  myself. 

He  was,  in  fact,  an  inveterate  hater,  a  miser  even  in  misan- 
thropy, and  hoarded  up  a  grudge  as  he  did  a  guinea.  Thus, 
though  my  mother  was  an  only  sister,  he  had  never  forgiven 
her  marriage  with  my  father,  against  whom  he  had  a  cold, 
still,  immovable  pique,  which  had  lain  at  the  bottom  of  his 
heart,  like  a  stone  in  a  well,  ever  since  they  had  been  school 
boys  together.  My  mother,  however,  considered  me  as  the 
intermediate  being  that  was  to  bring  every  thing  again  into 
harmony,  for  she  looked  upon  me  as  a  prodigy — God  bless  her. 
My  heart  overflows  whenever  I  recall  her  tenderness :  she  was 
the  most  excellent,  the  most  indulgent  of  mothers.  I  was  her 
only  child ;  it  was  a  pity  she  had  no  more,  for  she  had  fondness 
of  heart  enough  to  have  spoiled  a  dozen ! 

I  was  sent,  at  an  early  age,  to  a  public  school,  sorely  against 
my  mother's  wishes,  but  my  father  insisted  that  it  was  the 


9Q  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

only  way  to  make  boys  hardy.  The  school  was  kept  by  a  con- 
scientious prig  of  the  ancient  system,  who  did  his  duty  by  the 
boys  intrusted  to  his  care;  that  is  to  say,  we  were  flogged 
soundly  when  we  did  not  get  our  lessons.  We  were  put  into 
classes  and  thus  flogged  on  in  droves  along  the  highways  of 
knowledge,  in  the  same  manner  as  cattle  are  driven  to  market, 
where  those  that  are  heavy  in  gait  or  short  in  leg  have  to 
suffer  for  the  superior  alertness  or  longer  limbs  of  their  com- 
panions. 

For  my  part,  I  confess  it  with  shame,  I  was  an  incorrigible 
laggard.  I  have  always  had  the  poetical  feeling,  that  is  to  say, 
I  have  always  been  an  idle  fellow  and  prone  to  play  the  vaga- 
bond. I  used  to  get  away  from  my  books  and  school  whenever 
I  could,  and  ramble  about  the  fields.  I  was  surrounded  by 
seductions  for  such  a  temperament.  The  school-house  was  an 
old-fashioned,  white-washed  mansion  of  wood  and  plaister, 
standing  on  the  skirts  of  a  beautiful  village.  Close  by  it  was 
the  venerable  church  with  a  tall  Gothic  spire.  Before  it  spread 
a  lovely  green  valley,  with  a  little  stream  glistening  along 
through  willow  groves ;  while  a  line  of  blue  hills  that  bounded 
the  landscape  gave  rise  to  many  a  summer  day  dream  as  to  the 
fairy  land  that  lay  beyond. 

In  spite  of  all  the  scourgings  I  suffered  at  that  school  to 
make  me  love  my  book,  I  cannot  but  look  back  upon  the  place 
with  fondness.  Indeed,  I  considered  this  frequent  flagellation 
as  the  common  lot  of  humanity,  and  the  regular  mode  in 
which  scholars  were  made. '  My  kind  mother  used  to  lament 
over  my  details  of  the  sore  trials  I  underwent  in  the  cause  of 
learning ;  but  my  father  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  her  expostula- 
tions. He  had  been  flogged  through  school  himself,  and  swore 
there  was  no  other  way  of  making  a  man  of  parts ;  though,  let 
me  speak  it  with  all  due  reverence,  my  father  was  but  an  indif- 
ferent illustration  of  his  own  theory,  for  he  was  considered  a 
grievous  blockhead. 

My  poetical  temperament  evinced  itself  at  a  very  early 
period.  The  village  church  was  attended  every  Sunday  by  a 
neigkboring  squire— the  lord  of  the  manor,  whose  park 
stretched  quite  to  the  village,  and  whose  spacious  country  seat 
seemed  to  take  the  church  under  its  protection.  Indeed,  you 
would  have  thought  the  church  had  been  consecrated  to  him 
instead  of  to  the  Deity.  The  parish  clerk  bowed  low  before 
him,  and  the  vergers  humbled  themselves  into  the  dust  in  his 
presence.    He  always  entered  a  little  late  and  with  some  stir, 


THE   YOUNG   MAN  OF  GREAT  EXPECTATIONS.       97 

striking  his  cane  emphatically  011  the  ground;  swaying  his 
hat  in  his  hand,  and  looking  loftily  to  the  right  and  left,  as  he 
walked  slowly  up  the  aisle,  and  the  parson,  who  always  ate  his 
Sunday  dinner  with  him,  never  commenced  service  until  he 
appeared.  He  sat  with  his  family  in  a  large  pew  gorgeously 
lined,  humbling  himself  devoutly  on  velvet  cushions,  and  read- 
ing lessons  of  meekness  and  lowliness  of  spirit  out  of  splendid 
gold  and  morocco  prayer-books.  Whenever  the  parson  spoke 
of  the  difficulty  of  the  rich  man's  entering  the  kingdom  of 
heaven,  the  eyes  of  the  congregation  would  turn  towards  the 
"grand  pew,"  and  I  thought  the  squire  seemed  pleased  with  the 
application. 

The  pomp  of  this  pew  and  the  aristocratical  air  of  the  family 
struck  my  imagination  wonderfully,  and  I  fell  desperately  in 
love  with  a  little  daughter  of  the  squire's  about  twelve  years  of 
age.  This  freak  of  fancy  made  me  more  truant  from  my 
studies  than  ever.  I  used  to  stroll  about  the  squire's  park, 
and  would  lurk  near  the  house  to  catch  glimpses  of  this  little 
damsel  at  the  windows,  or  playing  about  the  lawns,  or  walking 
out  with  her  governess. 

I  had  not  enterprise  or  impudence  enough  to  venture  from 
my  concealment;  indeed,  I  felt  like  an  arrant  poacher,  until 
I  read  one  or  two  of  Ovid's  Metamorphoses,  when  I  pic- 
tured myself  as  some  sylvan  deity,  and  she  a  coy  wood  nymph 
of  whom  I  was  in  pursuit.  There  is  something  extremely 
delicious  in  these  early  awakenings  of  the  tender  passion. 
I  can  feel,  even  at  this  moment,  the  thrilling  of  my  boyish 
bosom,  whenever  by  chance  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  white 
frock  fluttering  among  the  shrubbery.  I  now  began  to  read 
poetry.  I  carried  about  in  my  bosom  a  volume  of  Waller, 
which  I  had  purloined  from  my  mother's  library ;  and  I  applied 
to  my  little  fair  one  all  the  compliments  lavished  upon  Sach- 
arissa. 

At  length  I  danced  with  her  at  a  school  ball.  I  was  so  awk- 
ward a  booby,  that  I  dared  scarcely  speak  to  her ;  I  was  filled 
with  awe  and  embarrassment  in  her  presence ;  but  I  was  so 
inspired  that  my  poetical  temperament  for  the  first  time 
broke  out  in  verse;  and  I  fabricated  some  glowing  lines,  in 
which  I  be-rhymed  the  little  lady  under  the  favorite  name  of 
Sacharissa.  I  slipped  the  verses,  trembling  and  blushing,  into 
her  hand  the  next  Sunday  as  she  came  out  of  church.  The  little 
prude  handed  them  to  her  mamma;  the  mamma  handed  them 
to  the  squire;  the  squire,   who  bad  no  soul  for  poetry,  sent 


98  TALES  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

them  in  dudgeon  to  the  school-master;  and  the  school-master, 
frith  a  barbarity  worthy  of  the  dark  ages,  gave  me  a  sound 
and  peculiarly  humiliating  flogging  for  thus  trespassing  upon 
Parnassus. 

This  was  a  sad  outset  for  a  votary  of  the  muse.  It  ought  to 
have  cured  me  of  my  passion  for  poetry;  but  it  only  con- 
firmed it,  for  I  felt  the  spirit  of  a  martyr  rising  within  me. 
What  was  as  well,  perhaps,  it  cured  me  of  my  passion  for  the 
young  lady;  for  I  felt  so  indignant  at  the  ignominious  horsing 
I  had  incurred  in  celebrating  her  charms,  that  I  could  not  hold 
\p  my  head  in  church. 

Fortunately  for  my  wounded  sensibility,  the  midsummer 
aolydays  came  on,  and  I  returned  home.  My  mother,  as  usual, 
inquired  into  all  my  school  concerns,  my  little  pleasures,  and 
cares,  and  sorrows ;  for  boyhood  has  its  share  of  the  one  as 
well  as  of  the  others.  I  told  her  all,  and  she  was  indignant  at 
the  treatment  I  had  experienced.  She  fired  up  at  the  arrogance 
of  the  squire,  and  the  prudery  of  the  daughter ;  and  as  to  the 
school-master,  she  wondered  where  was  the  use  of  having 
school-masters,  and  why  boys  could  not  remain  at  home  and  be 
educated  by  tutors,  under  the  eye  of  their  mothers.  She  asked 
to  see  the  verses  I  had  written,  and  she  was  delighted  with 
them;  for  to  confess  the  truth,  she  had  a  pretty  taste  in  poetry. 
She  even  showed  to  them  to  the  parson's  wife,  who  protested 
they  were  charming,  and  the  parson's  three  daughters  insisted 
on  each  having  a  copy  of  them. 

All  this  was  exceedingly  balsamic,  and  I  was  still  more  con- 
soled and  encouraged,  when  the  young  ladies,  who  were  the 
blue-stockings  of  the  neighborhood,  and  had  read  Dr.  Johnson's 
lives  quite  through,  assured  my  mother  that  great  geniuses 
never  studied,  but  were  always  idle ;  upon  which  I  began  to 
surmise  that  I  was  myself  something  out  of  the  common  run. 
My  father,  however,  was  of  a  very  different  opinion,  for  when 
my  mother,  in  the  pride  of  her  heart,  showed  him  my  copy  of 
verses,  he  threw  them  out  of  the  window,  asking  her  "if  she 
meant  to  make  a  ballad  monger  of  the  boy. "  But  he  was  a  care- 
less, common-thinking  man,  and  I  cannot  say  that  I  ever  loved 
him  much ;  my  mother  absorbed  all  my  filial  affection. 

I  used  occasionally,  during  holydays,  to  be  sent  on  short 
visits  to  the  uncle,  who  was  to  make  me  his  heir ;  they  thougnt 
it  would  keep  me  in  his  mind,  and  render  him  fond  of  me.  He 
was  a  withered,  anxious-looking  old  fellow,  and  lived  in  a  deso- 
late old  country  seat,  which  he  suffered  to  go  to  ruin  from 


Til K    YOUNQ    MAN  OF  GREAT  EXPECTATIONS.       £9 

absolute  niggardliness.  He  kept  but  one  man-servant,  who 
had  lived,  or  rather  starved,  with  him  for  years.  No  woman 
was  allowed  to  sleep  in  the  house.  A  daughter  of  the  old  ser- 
vant lived  by  the  gate,  in  what  had  been  a  porter's  lodge,  and 
was  permitted  to  come  into  the  house  about  an  hour  each  day, 
to  make  the  beds,  and  cook  a  morsel  of  provisions. 

The  park  that  surrounded  the  house  was  all  run  wild ;  the 
trees  grown  out  of  shape;  the  fish-ponds  stagnant;  the  urns 
and  statues  fallen  from  their  pedestals  and  buried  among  the 
rank  gras3.  The  hares  and  pheasants  were  so  little  molested, 
except  by  poachers,  that  they  bred  in  great  abundance,  and 
sported  about  the  rough  lawns  and  weedy  avenues.  To  guard 
the  premises  and  frighten  off  robbers,  of  whom  he  was  some- 
what apprehensive,  and  visitors,  whom  he  held  in  almost  equal 
awe,  my  uncle  kept  two  or  three  blood-hounds,  who  were  al- 
ways prowling  round  the  house,  and  were  the  dread  of  the 
neighboring  peasantry.  They  were  gaunt  and  half-starved, 
seemed  ready  to  devour  one  from  mere  hunger,  and  were  an 
effectual  check  on  any  stranger's  approach  to  this  wizard 
castle. 

Such  was  my  uncle's  house,  which  I  used  to  visit  now  and 
then  during  the  holydays.  I  was,  as  I  have  before  said,  the 
old  man's  favorite ;  that  is  to  say,  he  did  not  hate  me  so  much 
as  he  did  the  rest  of  the  world.  I  had  been  apprised  of  his 
character,  and  cautioned  to  cultivate  his  good-will ;  but  I  was 
too  young  and  careless  to  be  a  courtier ;  and  indeed  have  never 
been  sufficiently  studious  of  my  interests  to  let  them  govern  my 
feelings.  However,  we  seemed  to  jog  on  very  well  together ; 
and  as  my  visits  cost  him  almost  nothing,  they  did  not  seem  to 
be  very  unwelcome.  I  brought  with  me  my  gun  and  fishing- 
rod,  and  half  supplied  the  table  from  the  park  and  the  fish- 
ponds. 

Our  meals  were  solitary  and  unsocial.  My  uncle  rarely 
spoke;  he  pointed  for  whatever  he  wanted,  and  the  servant 
perfectly  understood  him.  Indeed,  his  man  John,  or  Iron 
John,  as  he  was  called  in  the  neighborhood,  was  a  counterpart 
of  his  master.  He  was  a  tall,  bony  old  fellow,  with  a  dry  wig 
hat  seemed  made  of  cow's  tail,  and  a  face  as  tough  as  though 
it  had  been  made  of  bull's  hide.  He  was  generally  clad  in  a 
long,  patched  livery  coat,  taken  out  of  the  wardrobe  of  the 
house;  and  which  bagged  loosely  about  him,  having  evident  1\ 
belonged  to  some  corpulent  predecessor,  in  the  more  plenteous 
days  of  the  mansion.     From  long  habits  of  taciturnity,  the 


100  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER 

hinges  of  his  jaws  seemed  to  have  grown  absolutely  rusty,  and 
it  cost  him  as  much  effort  to  set  them  ajar,  and  to  let  out  a 
tolerable  sentence,  as  it  would  have  done  to  set  open  the  iron 
gates  of  a  park,  and  let  out  the  family  carriage  that  was  drop- 
ping to  pieces  in  the  coach-house. 

I  cannot  say,  however,  but  that  I  was  for  some  time  amused 
with  my  uncle's  peculiarities.  Even  the  very  desoloteness  of 
the  establishment  had  something  in  it  that  hit  my  fancy. 
When  the  weather  was  fine  I  used  to  amuse  myself,  in  a  soli- 
tary way,  by  rambling  about  the  park,  and  coursing  like  a 
colt  across  its  lawns.  The  hares  and  pheasants  seemed  to  stare 
with  surprise,  to  see  a  human  being  walking  these  forbidden 
grounds  by  day-light.  Sometimes  I  amused  myself  by  jerking 
stones,  or  shooting  at  birds  with  a  bow  and  arrows;  for  to 
have  used  a  gun  would  have  been  treason.  Now  and  then  my 
path  was  crossed  by  a  little  red-headed,  ragged-tailed  urchin, 
the  son  of  the  woman  at  the  lodge,  who  ran  wild  about  the 
premises.  I  tried  to  draw  him  into  familiarity,  and  to  make  a 
companion  of  him ;  but  he  seemed  to  have  imbibed  the  strange, 
unsocial  character  of  every  thing  around  him ;  and  always  kept 
aloof ;  so  I  considered  him  as  another  Orson,  and  amused  my- 
self with  shooting  at  him  with  my  bow  and  arrows,  and  he 
would  hold  up  his  breeches  with  one  hand,  ond  scamper  away 
like  a  deer. 

There  was  something  in  all  this  loneliness  and  wildness 
strangely  pleasing  to  me/  The  great  stables,  empty  and 
weather-broken,  with  the  names  of  favorite  horses  over  the 
vacant  stalls ;  the  windows  bricked  and  boarded  up ;  the  broken 
roofs,  garrisoned  by  rooks  and  jackdaws;  all  had  a  singularly 
forlorn  appearance:  one  would  have  concluded  the  house  to 
be  totally  uninhabited,  were  it  not  for  a  little  thread  of  blue 
smoke,  which  now  and  then  curled  up  like  a  corkscrew,  from 
the  centre  of  one  of  the  wide  chimneys,  when  my  uncle's  star- 
veling meal  was  cooking. 

My  uncle's  room  was  in  a  remote  corner  of  the  building, 
strongly  secured  and  generally  locked.  I  was  never  admitted 
into  this  strong-hold,  where  the  old  man  would  remain  for  the 
greater  part  of  the  time,  drawn  up  like  a  veteran  spider  in  the 
citadel  of  his  web.  The  rest  of  the  mansion,  however,  was 
open  to  me,  and  I  sauntered  about  it  unconstrained.  The 
damp  and  rain  which  beat  in  through  the  broken  windows, 
crumbled  the  paper  from  the  walls ;  mouldered  the  pictures, 
and  gradually  destroyed  the  furniture,    I  loved  to  rove  about 


THE   YOUNQ   MAN  OF  GREAT  EXPECTATIONS.     101 

the  wide,  waste  chambers  in  bad  weather,  and  listen  to  the 
howling  of  the  wind,  and  the  banging  about  of  the  doors  and 
window-shutters.  I  pleased  myself  with  the  idea  how  com- 
pletely, when  I  came  to  the  estate,  I  would  renovate  all  things, 
and  make  the  old  building  ring  with  merriment,  till  it  was  as- 
tonished at  its  own  jocundity. 

The  chamber  which  I  occupied  on  these  visits  was  the  same 
that  had  been  my  mother's,  when  a  girl.  There  was  still  the 
toilet-table  of  her  own  adorning;  the  landscapes  of  her  own 
drawing.  She  had  never  seen  it  since  her  marriage,  but  woidd 
often  ask  me  if  every  thing  was  still  the  same.  All  was  just 
the  same ;  for  I  loved  that  chamber  on  her  account,  and  had 
taken  pains  to  put  every  thing  in  order,  and  to  mend  all  the 
flaws  in  the  windows  with  my  own  hands.  I  anticipated  the 
time  when  I  should  once  more  welcome  her  to  the  house  of  her 
fathers,  and  restore  her  to  this  little  nestling-place  of  her  child- 
hood. 

At  length  my  evil  genius,  or,  what  perhaps  is  the  same  thing, 
the  muse,  inspired  me  with  the  notion  of  rhyming  again.  My 
uncle,  who  never  went  to  church,  used  on  Sundays  to  read 
chapters  out  of  the  Bible ;  and  Iron  John,  the  woman  from  the 
lodge,  and  myself,  were  his  congregation.  It  seemed  to  be  all 
one  to  him  what  he  read,  so  long  as  it  was  something  from  the 
Bible :  sometimes,  therefore,  it  would  be  the  Song  of  Solomon ; 
and  this  withered  anatomy  would  read  about  being  "stayed 
with  flagons  and  comforted  with  apples,  for  he  was  sick 
of  love."  Sometimes  he  would  hobble,  with  spectacle  on  nose, 
through  whole  chapters  of  hard  Hebrew  names  in  Deuteron- 
omy ;  at  which  the  poor  woman  would  sigh  and  groan  as  if 
wonderfully  moved.  His  favorite  book,  however,  was  "The 
Pilgrim's  Progress;"  and  when  he  came  to  that  part  which 
treats  of  Doubting  Castle  and  Giant  Despair,  I  thought  invaria- 
bly of  him  and  his  desolate  old  country  seat.  So  much  did  the 
idea  amuse  me,  that  I  took  to  scribbling  about  it  under  the 
trees  in  the  park ;  and  in  a  few  days  had  made  some  progress 
in  a  poem,  in  which  I  had  given  a  description  of  the  place, 
under  the  name  of  Doubting  Castle,  and  personified  my  uncle 
as  Giant  Despair. 

I  lost  my  poem  somewhere  about  the  house,  and  I  soon  sus- 
pected that  my  uncle  had  found  it ;  as  he  harshly  intimated  to 
me  that  I  could  return  home,  and  that  I  need  not  come  and  set? 
him  again  until  he  should  scud  for  me. 

J. ist  about  this  time  my  mother  died.—  I  cannot  dwell  upon 


102  2  - 1 1  S3  0  /•"  <  I    7 11 .  1  I  rEL  L  Eh\ 

this  circumstance:  my  heart,  careless  and  wayworn  as  it  is. 
gushes  with  the  recollection.  Her  death  was  an  event  that 
perhaps  gave  a  turn  to  all  my  after  fortunes.  With  her  died 
all  that  made  home  attractive,  for  my  father  was  harsh,  as  I 
have  before  said,  and  had  never  treated  me  with  kindness. 
Not  that  he  exerted  any  unusual  severity  towards  me,  but  it 
was  his  way.  I  do  not  complain  of  him.  In  fact,  I  have  never 
been  of  a  complaining  disposition.  I  seem  born  to  be  buffet- 
ed by  friends  and  fortune,  and  nature  has  made  me  a  careless 
endurer  of  buffetings. 

I  now.  however,  began  to  grow  very  impatient  of  remaining 
at  school,  to  be  flogged  for  things  that  I  did  not  like.  I  longed 
for  variety,  especially  now  that  I  had  not  my  uncle's  to  resort  to, 
by  way  of  diversifying  the  dullness  of  school  with  the  dreari- 
ness of  his  country  scat,  I  was  now  turned  of  sixteen;  tall  for 
my  age,  and  full  of  idle  fancies.  I  had  a  roving,  inextinguish- 
able desire  to  see  different  kinds  of  life,  and  different  orders  of 
society;  and  this  vagrant  humor  had  been  fostered  in  me  by 
Tom  Dribble,  the  prime  wag  and  great  genius  of  the  school, 
who  had  all  the  rambling  propensities  of  a  poet. 

I  used  to  set  at  my  desk  in  the  school,  on  a  fine  summer's 
day,  and  instead  of  studying  the  book  which  lay  open  before 
me,  my  eye  was  gazing  through  the  window  on  the  green  fields 
and  blue  hills.  How  I  envied  the  happy  groups  seated  on  the 
tops  of  stage-coaches,  chatting,  and  joking,  and  laughing,  as 
they  were  whirled  by  the  school-house,  on  their  way  to  the 
metropolis.  Even  the  wagoners  trudging  along  beside  their  pon- 
derous teams,  and  traversing  the  kingdom,  from  one  end  to  the 
other,  were  objects  of  envy  to  me.  I  fancied  to  myself  what 
adventures  they  must  experience,  and  what  odd  scenes  of  life 
they  must  witness.  All  this  was  doubtless  the  poetical  tempera- 
ment working  within  me,  and  tempting  me  forth  into  a  world 
of  its  own  creation,  which  I  mistook  for  the  world  of  real  life. 

While  my  mother  lived,  this  strange  propensity  to  roam  was 
counteracted  by  the  stronger  attractions  of  home,  and  by  the 
powerful  ties  of  affection,  which  drew  me  to  her  side :  but  now 
that  she  was  gone,  the  attractions  had  ceased ;  the  ties  were 
severed.  I  had  no  longer  an  anchorage  ground  for  my  heart ; 
but  was  at  the  mercy  of  every  vagrant  impulse.  Nothing  but 
the  narrow  allowance  on  which  my  father  kept  me,  and  the 
consequent  penury  of  my  purse,  prevented  me  from  mounting 
Che  top  of  a  stage-coach  and  launching  myself  adrift  on  the 
<?reat  ocean  of  life. 


THE    YOUNQ    V.\.\    OF  GREAT  EXPECTATIONS.     [03 

Just  about  this  time  the  village  was  agitated  turn  nay  or 
two,  by  the  passing  through  of  several  caravans,  containing 
wild  beasts,  and  other  spectacles  for  a  great  fair  annually  held 
r-t  a  neighboring  town. 

I  had  never  seen  a  fair  of  any  consequence,  and  my  curiosity 
vas  powerfully  awakened  by  this  bustle  of  preparation.  I 
gazed  with  respect  and  wonder  at  the  vagrant  personages  who 
accompanied  these  caravans.  I  loitered  about  the  village  inn. 
listening  with  curiosity  and  delight  to  the  slang  talk  and  cant 
jokes  of  the  showmen  and  their  followers ;  and  I  felt  an  eager 
desire  to  witness  this  fair,  which  my  fancy  decked  out  as 
something  wonderfully  fine. 

A  holy  da}'  afternoon  presented,  when  I  could  be  absent  from 
the  school  from  noon  until  evening.  A  wagon  was  going  from 
the  village  to  the  fair.  I  could  not  resist  the  temptation,  nor 
the  eloquence  of  Tom  Dribble,  who  Avas  a  truant  to  the  very 
heart's  core.  We  hired  seats,  and  set  off  full  of  boyish  expecta- 
tion. I  promised  myself  that  I  would  but  take  a  peep  at  the 
land  of  promise,  and  hasten  back  again  before  my  absence 
should  be  noticed. 

Heavens !  how  happy  I  was  on  arriving  at  the  fair !  How-  I 
was  enchanted  with  the  world  of  fun  and  pageantry  around 
me :  The  humors  of  Punch  ;  the  feats  of  the  equestrians ;  the 
magical  tricks  of  the  conjurors !  But  what  principally  caught 
my  attention  was— an  itinerant  theatre:  where  a  tragedy,  pan- 
tomine,  and  farce  were  all  acted  in  the  course  of  half  an  hem-. 
and  more  of  the  dramatis  persona'  murdered,  than  at  either 
Drury  Lane  or  Covent  Garden  in  a  whole  evening.  I  have 
since  seen  many  a  play  performed  by  the  best  actors  in  the 
world,  but  never  have  I  derived  half  the  delight  from  any  that 
I  did  from  this  first  representation. 

There  was  a  ferocious  tyrant  in  a  skull  cap  like  an  inverted 
porringer,  and  a  dress  of  red  baize,  magnificently  embroidered 
with  gilt  leather;  with  his  face  so  be-whiskered  and  his  eye- 
brows so  knit  and  expanded  with  burn  cork,  that  he  made  my 
heart  quake  within  me  as  he  stamped  about  the  little  stage.  1 
was  enraptured  too  with  the  surpasssing  beauty  of  a  distressed 
damsel,  in  faded  pink  silk,  and  dirty  white  muslin,  whom  ho 
held  in  cruel  captivity  1  >y  wa  \  ■  >f  gaining  her  affections ;  and  who 
wept  and  wrung  her  hands  and  flourished  a  ragged  pocket 
handkerchief  from  the  top  of  an  impregnable  tower,  of  the  size 
of  a  band-box. 

Even  after  I  had  come  out  from  the  play,  I  could  not  tea? 


104  TALES  OF  A   TRA  YKLLFAi. 

myself  from  the  vicinity  of  the  theatre ;  but  lingered,  gazing, 
and  wondering,  and  laughing  at  the  dramatis  personae,  as  they 
performed  their  antics,  or  danced  upon  a  stage  in  front  of  the 
booth,  to  decoy  a  new  set  of  spectators. 

I  was  so  bewildered  by  the  scene,  and  so  lost  in  the  crowd  of. 
sensations  that  kept  swarming  upon  me  that  I  was  like  one 
entranced.  I  lost  my  companion  Tom  Dribble,  in  a  tumult 
and  scuffle  that  took  place  near  one  of  the  shows,  but  I  was  too 
much  occupied  in  mind  to  think  long  about  him.  I  strolled 
about  until  dark,  when  the  fair  was  lighted  up,  and  a  new 
scene  of  magic  opened  upon  me.  The  illumination  of  the  tents 
and  booths;  the  brilliant  effect  of  the  stages  decorated  with 
lamps,  with  dramatic  groups  flaunting  about  them  in  gaudy 
dresses,  contrasted  splendidly  with  the  surrounding  darkness ; 
while  the  uproar  of  drums,  trumpets,  fiddles,  hautboys,  and 
cymbals,  mingled  with  the  harangues  of  the  showmen,  the 
squeaking  of  Punch,  and  the  shouts  and  laughter  of  the  crowd, 
all  united  to  complete  my  giddy  distraction. 

Time  flew  without  my  perceiving  it.  When  I  came  to  my- 
self and  thought  of  the  school,  I  hastened  to  return.  I  inquired 
for  the  wagon  in  which  I  had  come :  it  had  been  gone  for  hours. 
I  asked  the  time :  it  was  almost  midnight !  A  sudden  quaking 
seized  me.  How  was  I  to  get  back  to  school?  I  was  too  weary 
to  make  the  journey  on  foot,  and  I  knew  not  where  to  apply 
for  a  conveyance.  Even  if  I  should  find  one,  could  I  venture 
to  disturb  the  school-house  long  after  midnight?  to  arouse  that 
sleeping  lion,  the  usher,  in  the  very  midst  of  his  night's  rest? 
The  idea  was  too  dreadful  for  a  delinquent  school-boy.  All  the 
horrors  of  return  rushed  upon  me — my  absence  must  long 
before  this  have  been  remarked — and  absent  for  a  whole  night? 
a  deed  of  darkness  not  easily  to  be  expiated.  The  rod  of  the 
pedagogue  budded  forth  into  tenfold  terrors  before  my  affright- 
ed fancy.  I  pictured  to  myself  punishment  and  humiliation  in 
every  variety  of  form ;  and  my  heart  sickened  at  the  picture. 
Alas !  how  often  are  the  petty  ills  of  boyhood  as  painful  to  oui 
tender  natures,  as  are  the  sterner  evils  of  manhood  to  our 
robuster  minds. 

I  wandered  about  among  the  booths,  and  I  might  have 
derived  a  lesson  from  my  actual  feelings,  how  much  the  charms 
of  this  world  depend  upon  ourselves ;  for  I  no  longer  saw  any- 
thing gay  or  delightful  in  the  revelry  around  me.  At  length  I 
lay  down,  wearied  and  perplexed,  behind  one  of  the  large  tents, 


THE   YOUNQ  M&N  OF  GREAT  EXPECTATIONS.     105 

*nd  covering  myself  with  the  margin  of  the  tent  cloth  to  keep 
off  the  night  chill,  I  soon  fell  fast  asl  ^ep. 

I  had  not  slept  long,  when  I  was  awakened  by  the  noise  of 
merriment  within  an  adjoining  booth.  It  was  the  itinerant 
theatre,  rudely  constructed  of  boards  and  canvas.  I  peeped 
through  an  aperture,  and  saw  the  whole  dramatis  persona?, 
tragedy,  comedy,  pantomime,  all  refreshing  themselves  after 
the  final  dismissal  of  their  auditors.  They  were  merry  and 
gamesome,  and  made  their  flimsy  theatre  ring  with  laughter.  I 
was  astonished  to  see  the  tragedy  tyrant  in  red  baize  and  fierce 
whiskers,  who  had  made  my  heart  quake  as  he  strutted  about 
the  boards,  now  transformed  into  a  fat,  good  humored  fellow ; 
the  beaming  porringer  laid  aside  from  his  brow,  and  his  jolly 
face  washed  from  all  the  terrors  of  burnt  cork.  I  was  delighted, 
too,  to  see  the  distressed  domsel  in  faded  silk  and  dirty  muslin, 
who  had  trembled  under  his  tyranny,  and  afflicted  me  so  much 
by  her  sorrows,  now  seated  familiarly  on  his  knee,  and  quaff- 
ing from  the  same  tankard.  Harlequin  lay  asleep  on  one  of 
the  benches;  and  monks,  satyrs,  and  vestal  virgins  were 
grouped  together,  laughing  outrageously  at  a  broad  story  told 
by  an  unhappy  count,  who  had  been  barbarously  murdered  in 
the  tragedy.  This  was,  indeed,  novelty  to  me.  It  was  a  peep 
into  another  planet.  I  gazed  and  listened  with  intense  curiosity 
and  enjoyment.  They  had  a  thousand  odd  stories  and  jokes 
about  the  events  of  the  day,  and  burlesque  descriptions  and 
mimickings  of  the  spectators  who  had  been  admiring  them. 
Their  conversation  was  full  of  allusions  to  their  adventures  at 
different  places,  where  they  had  exhibited ;  the  characters  they 
had  met  with  in  different  villages;  and  the  ludicrous  difficulties 
in  which  they  had  occasionally  been  involved.  All  past  cares 
and  troubles  were  now  turned  by  these  thoughtless  beings  into 
matter  of  merriment ;  and  made  to  contribute  to  the  gayety  of 
the  moment.  They  had  been  moving  from  fair  to  fair  about 
the  kingdom,  and  were  the  next  morning  to  set  out  on  their 
way  to  London. 

My  resolution  was  taken.  I  crept  from  my  nest,  and  scram- 
bled through  a  hedge  into  a  neighboring  field,  where  I  went  to 
work  to  make  a  tatterdemalion  of  myself.  I  tore  my  clothes ; 
soiled  them  with  dirt ;  begrimed  my  face  and  hands ;  and,  crawl- 
ing near  one  of  the  booths,  purloined  an  old  hat,  and  left  my 
new  one  in  its  place.  It  was  an  honest  theft,  and  I  hope  m&y 
not  hereafter  rise  up  in  judgment  against  me. 


J 06  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

I  now  ventured  to  the  scene  of  merrymaking,  and,  present 
ing  myself  before  the  dramatic  corps,  offered  myself  as  a 
volunteer.  I  felt  terribly  agitated  and  abashed,  for  "never 
before  stood  I  in  such  a  presence."  I  had  addressed  myself  to 
the  manager  of  the  company.  He  was  a  fat  man,  dressed  in 
dirty  white ;  with  a  red  sash  fringed  with  tinsel,  swathed  round 
his  body.  His  face  was  smeared  with  paint,  and  a  majestic 
plume  towered  from  an  old  spangled  black  bonnet.  He  was 
the  Jupiter  tonans  of  this  Olympus,  and  was  surrounded  by  the 
inferior  gods  and  goddesses  of  his  court.  He  sat  on  the  end  of 
a  bench,  by  a  table,  with  one  arm  akimbo  and  the  other  ex- 
tended to  the  handle  of  a  tankard,  which  he  had  slowly  set 
down  from  his  lips  as  he  surveyed  me  from  head  to  foot.  It 
was  a  moment  of  awful  scrutiny,  and  I  fancied  the  groups 
around  all  watching  us  in  silent  suspense,  and  waiting  for  the 
imperial  nod. 

He  questioned  me  as  to  who  I  was ;  what  were  my  qualifica- 
tions; and  what  terms  I  expected.  I  passed  myself  off  for  a 
discharged  servant  from  a  gentleman's  family ;  and  as,  happily, 
one  does  not  require  a  special  recommendation  to  get  admitted 
into  bad  company,  the  questions  on  that  head  were  easily  satis- 
fied. As  to  my  accomplishments,  I  would  spout  a  little  poetry, 
and  knew  several  scenes  of  plays,  which  I  had  learnt  at  school 

exhibitions.     I  could  dance ,  that  was  enough ;  no  further 

questions  were  asked  me  as  to  accomplishments ;  it  was  the 
very  thing  they  wanted ;  and,'  as  I  asked  no  wages,  but  merely 
meat  and  drink,  and  safe  conduct  about  the  world,  a  bargain 
was  struck  in  a  moment. 

Behold  me,  therefore  transformed  of  a  sudden  from  a  gentle- 
man student  to  a  dancing  buffoon ;  for  such,  in  fact,  was  the 
character  hi  winch  I  made  my  debut.  I  was  one  of  those  who 
formed  the  groups  in  the  dramas,  and  were  principally  em- 
ployed on  the  stage  in  front  of  the  booth,  to  attract  company. 
I  was  equipped  as  a  satyr,  in  a  dress  of  drab  frize  that  fitted  to 
my  shape ;  with  a  great  laughing  mask,  ornamented  with  huge 
ears  and  short  horns.  I  was  pleased  with  the  disguise,  because 
it  kept  me  form  the  danger  of  being  discovered,  whilst  we  were 
in  that  part  of  the  country ;  and,  as  I  had  merely  to  dance  and 
make  antics,  the  character  was  favorable  to  a  debutant,  being 
almost  on  a  par  with  Simon  Snug's  part  of  the  Lion,  which 
required  nothing  but  roaring. 

I  cannot  tell  you  how  happy  I  was  at  this  sudden  change  in 
my  situation.     I  felt  no  degradation,  for  I  had  seen  too  little  of 


VMM    YOUM   JAU    OP  (UiKAJ  1CJ 

Society  to  be  thoughtful  about  the  differences  of  rank;  and  a 
boy  of  sixteen  is  seldom  aristocratical.  I  had  given  up  no 
friend ;  for  there  seemed  to  be  no  one  in  the  world  that  eared 
fur  me,  now  my  poor  mother  was  dead.  I  had  given  up  no 
pleasure ;  for  my  pleasure  was  to  ramble  about  and  indulge  the 
flow  of  a  poetical  imagination ;  and  I  now  enjoyed  it  in  perfec- 
tion. There  is  no  life  so  truly  poetical  as  that  of  a  dancing 
buffoon. 

It  may  be  said  that  all  this  argued  grovelling  inclinations.  I 
do  not  think  so ;  not  that  I  mean  to  vindicate  myself  in  any 
great  degree ;  I  know  too  well  what  a  whimsical  compound  I 
am.  But  in  this  instance  I  was  seduced  by  no  love  of  low  com- 
pany, nor  disposition  to  indulge  in  low  vices.  I  have  always 
despised  the  brutally  vulgar;  and  I  have  always  had  a  disgust 
at  vice,  whether  in  high  or  low  life.  I  was  governed  merely 
by  a  sudden  and  thoughtless  impule.  I  had  no  idea  of  resort- 
ing to  this  profession  as  a  mode  of  life ;  or  of  attaching  myself 
to  these  people,  as  my  future  class  of  society.  I  thought  merely 
of  a  temporary  gratification  of  my  curiosity,  and  an  indulgence 
of  my  humors.  I  had  already  a  strong  relish  for  the  peculiari- 
ties of  character  and  the  varieties  of  situation,  and  I  have 
always  been  fond  of  the  comedy  of  life,  and  desirous  of  seeing 
it  through  all  its  shifting  scenes. 

In  mingling,  therefore,  among  mountebanks  and  buffoons  I 
was  protected  by  the  very  vivacity  of  imagination  which  had 
led  me  among  them.  I  moved  about  enveloped,  as  it  were,  in 
a  protecting  delusion,  which  my  fancy  spread  around  me.  I 
assimilated  to  these  people  only  as  they  struck  me  poetically ; 
their  Avhimsical  ways  and  a  certain  picturesqueness  in  their 
mode  of  life  entertained  me ;  but  I  was  neither  amused  nor  cor- 
rupted by  their  vices.  In  short,  I  mingled  among  them,  as 
Prince  Hal  did  among  his  graceless  associates,  merely  to  gratify 
my  humor. 

I  did  not  investigate  my  motives  in  this  manner,  at  the  time, 
for  I  was  too  careless  and  thoughtless  to  reason  about  the  mat- 
ter; but  I  do  so  now,  when  I  look  back  with  trembling  to  think 
of  the  ordeal  to  which  I  unthinkingly  exposed  myself,  and  the 
manner  in  which  I  passed  through  it.  Nothing,  I  am  con- 
vinced, but  the  poetical  temperament,  that  hurried  me  into  the 
scrape,  brought  me  out  of  it  without  my  becoming  an  arrant 
vagabond. 

Full  of  the  enjoyment  of  the  moment,  giddy  with  the  wild? 
aess  of  animal  spirits,  so  rapturous  in  a  boy,  I  capered,  I  danced. 


108  TALES  OF  A    TL'A  VKLLER 

I  played  a  thousand  fantastic  tricks  about  the  stage,  in  the 
villages  in  which  we  exhibited;  and  I  was  universally  pro- 
nounced the  most  agreeable  monster  that  had  ever  been  seen 
in  those  parts.  My  disappearance  from  school  had  awakened 
my  father's  anxiety;  for  I  one  day  heard  a  description  of  my- 
self cried  before  the  very  booth  in  which  I  was  exhibiting;  with 
the  offer  of  a  reward  for  any  intelligence  of  me.  I  had  no  great 
scruple  about  letting  my  father  suffer  a  little  uneasiness  on  my 
account ;  it  would  punish  him  for  past  indifference,  and  would 
make  him  value  me  the  more  when  he  found  me  again.  I  have 
wondered  that  some  of  my  comrades  did  not  recognize  in  me 
the  stray  sheep  that  was  cried;  but  they  were  all,  no  doubt, 
occupied  by  their  own  concerns.  They  were  all  laboring  seri- 
ously in  their  antic  vocations,  for  folly  was  a  mere  trade  with 
the  most  of  them,  and  they  often  grinned  and  capered  with 
heavy  hearts.  With  me,  on  the  contrary,  it  was  all  real.  I 
acted  con  amove,  and  rattled  and  laughed  from  the  irrepressi- 
ble gayety  of  my  spirits.  It  is  true  that,  now  and  then,  I  started 
and  looked  grave  on  receiving  a  sudden  thwack  from  the 
wooden  sword  of  Harlequin,  in  the  course  of  my  gambols ;  as 
it  brought  to  mind  the  birch  of  my  school-master.  -But  I  soon 
got  accustomed  to  it ;  and  bore  all  the  cuffing,  and  kicking,  and 
tumbling  about,  that  form  the  practical  wit  of  your  itinerant 
pantomime,  with  a  good  humor  that  made  me  a  prodigious 
favorite. 

The  country  campaign  of  the  troupe  was  soon  at  an  end,  and 
we  set  off  for  the  metropolis,  to  perform  at  the  fairs  which  are 
held  in  its  vicinity.  The  greater  part  of  our  theatrical  property 
was  sent  on  direct,  to  be  in  a  state  of  preparation  for  the  open- 
ing of  the  fairs ;  while  a  detachment  of  the  company  travelled 
slowly  on,  foraging  among  the  villages.  I  was  amused  with 
the  desultory,  hap-hazard  kind  of  life  we  led;  here  to-day,  and 
gone  to-morrow.  Sometimes  revelling  in  ale-houses;  some- 
times feasting  under  hedges  in  the  green  fields.  When  audi- 
ences were  crowded  and  business  profitable,  we  fared  well,  and 
when  otherwise,  we  fared  scantily,  and  consoled  ourselves  with 
anticipations  of  the  next  day's  success. 

At  length  the  increasing  frequency  of  coaches  hurrying  past 
us,  covered  with  passengers;  the  increasing  number  of  car- 
riages, carts,  wagons,  gigs,  droves  of  cattle  and  flocks  of  sheep, 
all  thronging  the  road ;  the  snug  country  boxes  with  trim  flower 
gardens  twelve  feet  square,  and  their  trees  twelve  feet  high, 
all  powdered  with  dust;  and  the  innumerable  seminaries  for 


TBE  YOUNG  MAN  OF  GREAT  EXPECTATIONS.    109 

young  ladies  and  gentlemen,  situated  along  the  road,  for  the 
benefit  of  country  air  and  rural  retirement ;  all  these  insignia 
announced  that  the  mighty  London  was  at  hand.  The  hurry, 
and  the  crowd,  and  the  bustle,  and  the  noise,  and  the  dust, 
increased  as  we  proceeded,  until  I  saw  the  great  cloud  of  smoke 
hanging  in  the  air,  like  a  canopy  of  state,  over  this  queen  of 
cities. 

In  this  way,  then,  did  I  enter  the  metropolis;  a  strolling 
vagabond ;  on  the  top  of  a  caravan  with  a  crew  of  vagabonds 
about  me ;  but  I  was  as  happy  as  a  prince,  for,  like  Prince  Hal, 
I  felt  myself  superior  to  my  situation,  and  knew  that  I  could 
at  any  time  cast  it  off  and  emerge  into  my  proper  sphere. 

How  my  eyes  sparkled  as  we  passed  Hyde-park  corner,  and 
I  saw  splendid  equipages  rolling  by,  with  powdered  footmen 
behind,  in  rich  liveries,  and  fine  nosegays,  and  gold-headed 
canes ;  and  with  lovely  women  within,  so  sumptuously  dressed 
and  so  surpassingly  fair.  I  was  always  extremely  sensible  to 
female  beauty;  and  here  I  saw  it  in  all  its  fascination;  for, 
whater  may  be  said  of  "  beauty  unadorned, "  there  is  something 
almost  awful  in  female  loveliness  decked  out  in  jewelled  state. 
The  swan-like  neck  encircled  with  diamonds ;  the  raven  locks, 
clustered  with  pearls ;  the  ruby  glowing  on  the  snowy  bosom, 
are  objects  that  I  could  never  contemplate  without  emotion ; 
and  a  dazzling  white  arm  clasped  with  bracelets,  and  taper 
transparent  fingers  laden  with  sparkling  rings,  are  to  me  irre- 
sistible. My  very  eyes  ached  as  I  gazed  at  the  high  and  courtly 
beauty  that  passed  before  me.  It  surpassed  all  that  my  imagi- 
nation had  conceived  of  the  sex.  I  shrunk,  for  a  moment,  into 
shame  at  the  company  in  which  I  was  placed,  and  repined  at 
the  vast  distance  that  seemed  to  intervene  between  me  and 
these  magnificent  beings. 

I  forbear  to  give  a  detail  of  the  happy  life  which  I  led  about 
the  skirts  of  the  metropolis,  playing  at  the  various  fairs,  held 
there  during  the  latter  part  of  spring  and  the  beginning  of 
summer.  This  continual  change  from  place  to  place,  and  scene 
to  scene,  fed  my  imagination  with  novelties,  and  kept  my 
spirits  in  a  perpetual  state  of  excitement. 

As  I  was  tall  of  my  age  I  aspired,  at  one  time,  to  play  heroes 
in  tragedy ;  but  after  two  or  three  trials,  I  was  pronounced,  by 
the  manager,  totally  unfit  for  the  line;  and  our  first  tragic 
actress,  who  was  a  large  woman,  and  held  a  small  hero  in 
abhorrence,  confirmed  his  decision. 

The  fact  is,  I  had  attempted  to  give  point  to  language  which 


!  LO  VALtiS  HAVtiLL 

had  no  point,  and  nature  to  scenes  which  had  no  nature.  Thej 
said  I  did  not  fill  out  my  characters ;  and  they  were  right.  The 
characters  had  all  been  prepared  for  a  different  sort  of  man. 
Our  tragedy  her.)  was  a  round,  robustious  fellow,  with  an  amaz- 
ing voice;  who  stamped  and  slapped  his  breast  until  his  wig 
shook  again;  and  who  roared  and  bellowed  out  his  bombast, 
until  every  phrase  swelled  upon  the  ear  like  the  sound  of  a 
kettle-drum.  I  might  as  well  have  attempted  to  fill  out  his 
clothes  as  his  characters.  When  we  had  a  dialogue  together.  1 
was  nothing  before  him,  with  my  slender  voice  and  discrimin- 
ating manner.  I  might  as  well  have  attempted  to  parry  a 
cudgel  with  a  small  sword.  If  he  found  me  in  any  way  gaining 
ground  upon  him,  he  would  take  refuge  in  his  mighty  voice, 
and  throw  his  tones  like  peals  of  thunder  at  me,  until  they  were 
drowned  in  the  still  louder  thunders  of  applause  from  the 
audience. 

To  tell  the  truth,  I  suspect  that  I  was  not  shown  fair  play, 
and  that  there  was  management  at  the  bottom ;  for  without 
vanity.  1  think  I  was  a  better  actor  than  he.  As  I  had  not 
embarked  in  the  vagabond  line  through  ambition,  I  did  not 
repine  at  lack  of  preferment ;  but  I  was  grieved  to  find  that  a 
vagrant  life  was  not  without  its  cares  and  anxieties,  and  that 
jealousies,  intrigues,  and  mad  ambition  were  to  be  found  even 
among  vagabonds. 

Indeed,  as  I  become  more  familiar  with  my  situation,  and 
the  delusions  of  fancy  began  to  fade  away,  I  discovered  that 
my  associates  were  not  the  happy  careless  creatures  I  had  at 
first  imagined  them.  They  were  jealous  of  each  other's  talents ; 
they  quarrelled  about  parts,  the  same  as  the  actors  on  the 
grand  theatres ;  they  quarrelled  about  dresses ;  and  there  wa.i 
one  robe  of  yellow  siik,  trimmed  with  red,  and  a  head-dress  oi 
three  rumpled  ostrich  feathers,  which  were  continually  settin;: 
the  ladies  of  the  company  by  the  ears.  Even  those  who  had 
attained  the  highest  honors  were  not  more  happy  than  the  rest ; 
for  Mr.  Flimsey  himself,  our  first  tragedian,  and  apparently 
a  jovial,  good-humored  fellow,  confessed  to  me  one  day,  in 
the  fullness  of  his  heart,  that  he  was  a  miserable  man.  He 
had  a  brother-in-law,  a  relative  by  marriage,  though  not  by 
blood,  who  was  manager  of  a  theatre  in  a  small  country  town. 
And  this  same  brother,  ("a  little  more  than  kin,  but  less  than 
kind,")  looked  down  upon  him,  and  treated  him  with  con- 
tumely, because  forsooth  he  was  but  a  strolling  player.  I 
tried  to  console  him  with  the  thoughts  of  the  vast  applause  he 


TILE    YOUNQ    MAX  OF  GREAT  EXPECTATIONS.     U] 

ilaily  received,  but  it  was  all  in  vain.  He  declared  that  it  gave 
him  no  delight,  and  that  he  should  never  be  a  happy  man  until 
the  name  ot  Flimsey  rivalled  the  name  of  Crimp. 

How  little  do  those  before  the  scenes  know  of  what  passes 
behind ;  how  little  can  they  judge,  from  the  countenances  of 
actors,  of  what  is  passing  in  their  hearts.  I  have  known  two 
lovers  quarrel  like  cats  behind  the  scenes,  who  were,  the 
moment  after,  ready  to  fly  into  each  other's  embraces.  And  I 
have  dreaded,  when  our  Belvidera  was  to  take  her  farewell  kiss 
of  her  Jafiier,  lest  she  should  bite  apiece  out  of  his  cheek.  Our 
tragedian  was  a  rough  joker  off  the  stage ;  our  prime  clown  the 
most  peevish  mortal  living.  The  latter  used  to  go  about  snap- 
ping and  snarling,  with  a  broad  laugh  painted  on  his  counten- 
ance ;  and  I  can  assure  you  that,  whatever  may  be  said  of  the 
gravity  of  a  monkey,  or  the  melancholy  of  a  gibed  cat,  there 
is  no  more  melancholy  creature  in  existence  than  a  mounte- 
bank off  duty. 

The  only  thing  in  which  all  parties  agreed  was  to  backbite 
the  manager,  and  cabal  against  his  regulations.  This,  how- 
ever, I  have  since  discovered  to  be  a  common  trait  of  human 
nature,  and  to  take  place  in  all  communities.  It  would  seem 
to  be  the  main  business  of  man  to  repine  at  government.  In 
all  situations  of  life  into  which  I  have  looked,  I  have  found 
mankind  divided  into  two  grand  parties; — those  who  ride  and 
those  who  are  ridden.  The  great  struggle  of  life  seems  to  be 
which  shall  keep  in  the  saddle.  This,  it  appears  to  me,  is  the 
fundamental  principle  of  politics,  whether  in  great  or  little 
life.  However,  I  do  not  mean  to  moralize;  but  one  cannot 
always  sink  the  philosopher. 

Well,  then,  to  return  to  myself.  It  was  determined,  as  I 
said,  that  I  was  not  fit  for  tragedy,  and  unluckily,  as  my  study 
was  bad,  having  a  very  poor  memory,  I  was  pronounced  unfit 
for  comedy  also:  brides,  the  line  of  young  gentlemen  was 
already  engrossed  by  an  actor  with  whom  I  could  not  pretend 
to  enter  into  competition,  he  having  tilled  it  for  almost  half  a 
century.  I  came  down  again  therefore  to  pantomime.  In 
consequence,  however,  of  the  gooa  offices  of  the  manager's 
who  had  taken  a  liking  to  me.  I  was  promoted  from  the 
part  of  the  satyr  to  that  of  the  '  >ver;  and  with  my  tare  patched 
and  painted,  a  huge  cravat  of  paper,  a  steeple-crowned  hat, 
and  dangling,  long-skirted,  sky-blue  coat,  was  metamorphosed 
into  the  lover  of  Columbine.  My  part  did  not  call  for  much  of 
the  tender  and  sentimental.     I  had  merely  to  pursue  the  in;  i 


112  TA  L  Ef    0  FA    TEA  YE  L  L  Ell. 

tive  fair  one ;  to  have  a  door  now  and  then  slammed  in  my 
face ;  to  run  my  head  occasionally  against  a  post ;  to  tumble 
and  roll  about  with  Pantaloon  and  the  clown;  and  to  endure 
the  hearty  thwacks  of  Harlequin's  wooden  sword. 

As  ill  luck  would  have  it,  my  poetical  temperament  began  to 
ferment  within  me,  and  to  work  out  new  troubles.  The 
inflammatory  air  of  a  great  metropolis  added  to  the  rural 
scenes  in  which  the  fairs  were  held ;  such  as  Greenwich  Park ; 
Epping  Forest ;  and  the  lovely  valley  of  the  West  End,  had  a 
powerful  effect  upon  me.  While  in  Greenwich  Park  I  was 
witness  to  the  old  holiday  games  of  running  down  hill ;  and 
kissing  in  the  ring ;  and  then  the  firmament  of  blooming  faces 
and  blue  eyes  that  would  be  turned  towards  me  as  I  was  play- 
ing antics  on  the  stage;  all  these  set  my  young  blood,  and  my 
poetical  vein,  in  full  flow.  In  short,  I  played  my  character  to 
the  life,  and  became  desperately  enamored  of  Columbine.  She 
was  a  trim,  well-made,  tempting  girl,  with  a  rougish,  dimpling 
face,  and  fine  chesnut  hair  clustering  all  about  it.  The  moment 
I  got  fairly  smitten,  there  was  an  end  to  all  playing.  I  was 
such  a  creature  of  fancy  and  feeling  that  I  could  not  put  on  a 
pretended,  when  I  was  powerfully  affected  by  a  real  emotion. 
I  could  not  sport  with  a  fiction  that  came  so  near  to  the  fact. 
I  became  too  natural  in  my  acting  to  succeed.  And  then,  what 
a  situation  for  a  lover !  I  was  a  mere  stripling,  and  she  played 
with  my  passion;  for  girls  soon  grow  more  adroit  and  knowing 
in  these  than  your  awkward  youngsters.  What  agonies  had  I 
to  suffer.  Every  time  that  she  danced  in  front  of  the  booth 
and  made  such  liberal  displays  of  her  charms,  I  was  in  tor- 
ment. To  complete  my  misery,  I  had  a  real  rival  in  Harlequin ; 
an  active,  vigorous,  knowing  varlet  of  six-and-twenty.  What 
had  a  raw,,  inexperienced  youngster  like  me  to  hope  from  such 
a  competition? 

I  had  still,  however,  some  advantages  in  my  favor.  In  spite 
of  my  change  of  life,  I  retained  that  indescribable  something 
which  always  distinguishes  the  gentleman;  that  something 
which  dwells  in  a  man's  air  and  deportment,  and  not  in  his 
clothes ;  and  which  it  is  as  difficult  for  a  gentleman  to  put  off 
as  for  a  vulgar  fellow  to  put  on.  The  company  generally  felt 
it,  and  used  to  call  me  little  gentleman  Jack.  The  girl  felt  it 
too ;  and  in  spite  of  her  predilection  for  my  powerful  rival,  she 
liked  to  flirt  with  me.  This  only  aggravated  my  troubles,  by 
increasing  my  passion,  and  awakening  the  jealousy  of  hex 
parti-colored  lover. 


THE   TOUNQ   MAX  OF  GREAT  EXPECTATIONS     113 

Alas !  think  what  I  suffered,  at  being  obliged  to  keep  up  an 
ineffectual  chase  after  my  Columbine  through  whole  panto- 
mines  ;  to  see  her  carried  off  in  the  vigorous  arms  of  the  happy- 
Harlequin;  and  to  be  obliged,  instead  of  snatching  her  from 
him,  to  tumble  sprawling  with  Pantaloon  and  the  clown ;  and 
bear  the  infernal  and  degrading  thwacks  of  my  rival's  weapon 
of  lath;  which,  may  heaven  confound  him!  (excuse  my  pas- 
sion) the  villain  laid  on  with  a  malicious  good- will;  nay.  I 
could  absolutely  hear  him  chuckle  and  laugh  beneath  his 
accursed  mask — I  beg  pardon  for  growing  a  little  warm  in  my 
narration.  I  wish  to  be  cool,  but  these  recollections  will  some- 
times agitate  me.  I  have  heard  and  read  of  many  desperate 
and  deplorable  situations  of  lovers ;  but  none,  I  think,  in  which 
true  love  was  ever  exposed  to  so  severe  and  peculiar  a  trial. 

This  could  not  last  long.  Flesh  and  blood,  at  least  such  flesh 
and  blood  as  mine,  could  not  bear  it.  I  had  repeated  heart 
burnings  and  quarrels  with  my  rival,  in  which  he  treated  me 
with  the  mortifying  forbearance  of  a  man  towards  a  child. 
Had  he  quarrelled  outright  with  me,  I  could  have  stomached 
it ;  at  least  I  should  have  known  what  part  to  take ;  but  to  be 
humored  and  treated  as  a  child  in  the  presence  of  my  mistress, 
when  I  felt  all  the  bantam  spirit  of  a  little  man  swelling  witliin 
me — gods,  it  was  insufferable ! 

At  length  we  were  exhibiting  one  day  at  West  End  fair, 
which  was  at  that  time  a  very  fashionable  resort,  and  often 
beleaguered  by  gay  equipages  from  town.  Among  the  spec- 
tators that  filled  the  front  row  of  our  little  canvas  theatre  one 
afternoon,  when  I  had  to  figure  in  a  pantomine,  was  a  party  of 
young  ladies  from  a  boarding-school,  with  their  governess. 
Guess  my  confusion,  when,  in  the  midst  of  my  antics,  I  beheld 
among  the  number  my  quondam  flame;  her  whom  I  had 
be-rhymed  at  school ;  her  for  whose  charms  I  had  smarted  so 
severely;  the  cruel  Sacharissa!  What  was  worse,  I  fancied 
she  recollected  me ;  and  was  repeating  the  story  of  my  humilat- 
ing  flagellation,  for  I  saw  her  whispering  her  companions  and 
her  governess.  I  lost  all  consciousness  of  the  part  I  was  acting, 
and  of  the  place  where  I  was.  I  felt  shrunk  to  nothing,  and 
could  have  crept  into  a  rat-hole — unluckily,  none  was  open  to 
receive  me.  Before  I  could  recover  from  my  confusion,  I  was 
tumbled  over  by  Pantaloon  and  the  clown ;  and  I  felt  the  sword 
of  Harlequin  making  vigorous  assaults,  in  a  manner  most 
degrading  to  my  dignity. 

Heaven  and  earth !  was  I  again  to  suffer  martyrdom  in  this 


114  TALES   OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

ignominious  manner,  in  the  knowledge,  and  even  before  the 
very  eyes  of  this  most  beautiful,  but  most  disdainful  of  fair 
ones  ?  All  my  long-smothered  wrath  broke  out  at  once;  the 
dormant  feelings  of  the  gentleman  arose  within  me;  stung  to 
the  quick  by  intolerable  mortification,  I  sprang  on  my  feet  ir. 
an  instant;  leaped  upon  Harlequin  like  a  young  tiger;  tore  off 
his  mask;  buffeted  him  in  the  face,  and  soon  shed  more  blood 
on  the  stage  than  had  been  spilt  upon  it  during  a  whole  tragic 
campaign  of  battles  and  murders. 

As  soon  as  Harlequin  recovered  from  his  surprise  he  returned 
my  assault  with  interest.  I  was  nothing  in  his  hands.  I  was 
game  to  be  sure,  for  I  was  a  gentleman ;  but  he  had  the  clown- 
ish advantages  of  bone  and  muscle.  I  felt  as  if  I  could  have 
fought  even  unto  the  death;  and  I  was  likely  to  do  so;  for  he 
sv;is.  according  t<>  the  vulgar  phrase,  "putting  my  head  into 
Chancery/'  when  the  gentle  Columbine  flew  to  my  assistance. 
God  bless  the  women;  they  are  always  on  the  side  of  the  weak 
and  the  oppress*  ■<  i . 

The  battle  now  became  general ;  the  dramatis  persona?  ranged 
on  cither  side.  The  manager  interfered  in  vain.  In  vain 
were  his  spangled  black  bonnet  and  1  owering  white  feathers 
seen  whisking  about,  and  nodding,  and  bobbing,  in  the  thickest 
of  the  fight.  Warriors,  ladies,  priests,  satyrs,  kings,  queens, 
gods  and  goddesses,  all  joined  pell-mell  in  the  fray.  Never, 
since  the  conflict  under  the  walls  of  Troy,  had  there  been  such 
a  chance  medley  warfare  oi  combatants,  human  and  divine. 
The  audience  applauded,  the  ladies  shrieked  and  fled  from  the 
theatre,  and  a  scene  of  discord  ensued  that  baffles  all  descrip- 
tion. 

Nothing  but  the  interference  of  the  peace  officers  restored 
some  degree  of  order.  The  havoc,  however,  that  had  been 
made  among  dresses  and  decorations  put  an  end  to  all  farther 
acting  for  that  day.  The  battle  over,  the  next  thing  was  to 
inquire  why  it  was  begun:  a  common  question  among  poli- 
ticians, after  a  bloody  and  unprofitable  war ;  and  one  not  always 
21XSY  to  be  answered.  It  was  soon  traced  to  me,  and  my  unac- 
countable transport  of  passion,  which  they  could  only  attribute 
to  my  having  run  a  much.  The  manager  was  judge  and  jury, 
and  plaintiff  in  the  bargain,  and  in  such  cases  justice  is  always 
speedily  administered.  He  came  out  of  the  fight  as  sublime  a 
wreck  as  the  Santissima  Trinidada.  His  gallant  plumes,  which 
once  towered  aloft,  were  drooping  about  his  ears.  His  robe  of 
hung  in  ribbands  from  his  back,  and  but  ill  conceived  the 


Thii    iuCm;   )ia\   0&  QBtiAT  EXPECTATIONS.     |l£ 

ravages  he  had  suffered  in  the  rear.  He  had  received  kid. 
and  cuffs  from  all  sides,  during  che  tumult;  for  every  one  took 
the  opportunity  of  slyly  gratifying  some  lurking  grudge  on  his 
fat  carcass.  He  was  a  discreet  man,  and  did  not  choose  to 
declare  war  with  all  his  company ;  so  he  swore  all  those  kicks 
and  cuffs  had  been  given  by  me,  and  I  let  him  enjoy  the  opin- 
ion. Some  wounds  he  bore,  however,  winch  were  the  incontes 
tible  traces  of  a  woman's  warfare.  His  sleek  rosy  cheek  was 
scored  by  trickling  furrows,  which  were  ascribed  to  the  nails 
of  my  intrepid  and  devoted  Columbine.  The  ire  of  the  mon- 
arch was  not  to  be  appeased.  He  had  suffered  in  his  person, 
and  he  had  suffered  in  his  purse;  his  dignity  too  had  been 
insidted,  and  that  went  for  something ;  for  dignity  is  always 
more  irascible  the  more  petty  the  potentate.  He  wreaked  his 
wrath  upon  the  beginners  of  the  affray,  and  Columbine  and 
myself  were  discharged,  at  once,  from  the  company. 

Figure  me,  then,  to  yourself,  a  stripling  of  little  more  than 
sixteen ;  a  gentleman  by  birth ;  a  vagabond  by  trade ;  turned 
adrift  upon  the  world;  making  the  best  of  my  way  through 
i  >wd  of  West  End  fair ;  my  mountebank  dress  fluttering 
iu  rags  about  me;  the  weeping  Columbine  hanging  upon  my 
arm.  in  splendid,  but  tattered  finely ;  the  tears  coursing  one 
by  one  down  her  face:  carrying  off  the  red  paint  in  torrents, 
and  literally  ;'  preying  upon  her  damask  cheek." 

The  crowd  made  way  for  us  as  we  passed  and  hooted  hi  our 
rear.  I  felt  the  ridicule  of  my  situation,  but  had  too  much 
gallantry  to  desert  this  fair  one,  who  had  sacrificed  everything 
for  me.  Having  wandered  through  the  fair,  we  emerged,  like 
another  Adam  and  Eve.  into  unknown  regions,  and  ,l  had  the 
world  before  us  where  to  choose. "  ever  was  a  more  disconso- 
late pair  seen  in  the  soft  valley  of  West  End.  The  luckless 
Columbine  cast  back  many  a  lingering  look  at  the  fair,  which 
seemed  to  put  on  a  more  than  usual  splendor ;  its  tents,  and 
booths,  and  parti-colored  groups,  all  brightening  in  the  sun- 
shine, and  gleaming  among  the  trees;  and  its  gay  flags  and 
Streamers  playing  and  fluttering  in  the  light  summer  airs. 
With  a  heavy  sigh  she  would  lean  on  my  arm  and  proceed.  I 
had  no  hope  or  consolation  to  give  her;  but  she  had  linked  her- 
self to  my  fortunes,  and  she  was  too  much  of  a  woman  to 
desert  me. 

Pensive  and  silent,  then,  we  traversed  the  beautiful  fields 
that  lie  behind  Hempstead,  and  wandered  on,  until  the  fiddle, 
and  the  hautboy,  and  the  shout,  and  the  laugh,  were  swallowed 


116  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

up  in  the  deep  sound  of  the  big  bass  drum,  and  even  that  died 
away  into  a  distant  rumble.  We  passed  along  the  pleasant 
sequestered  walk  of  Nightingale  lane.  For  a  pair  of  lovers 
what  scene  could  be  more  propitious? — But  such  a  pair  of 
lovers!  Not  a  nightingale  sang  to  soothe  us:  the  very  gypsies 
who  were  encamped  there  during  the  fair,  made  no  offer  to  tell 
the  fortunes  of  such  an  ill-omened  couple,  whose  fortunes,  I 
suppose,  they  thought  too  legibly  written  to  need  an  inter- 
preter;  and  the  gypsey  children  crawled  into  their  cabins  and 
peeped  out  fearfully  at  us  as  we  went  by.  For  a  moment  I 
paused,  and  was  almost  tempted  to  turn  gypsey,  but  the  poet- 
ical feeling  for  the  present  was  fully  satisfied,  and  I  passed  on. 
Thus  we  travelled,  and  travelled,  like  a  prince  and  princess  in 
nursery  chronicle,  until  we  had  traversed  a  part  of  Hempstead 
Heath  and  arrived  in  the  vicinity  of  Jack  Straw's  castle. 

Here,  wearied  and  dispirited,  we  seated  ourselves  on  the 
margin  of  the  hill,  hard  by  the  very  mile-stone  where  Whitting- 
ton  of  yore  heard  the  Bow  bells  ring  out  the  presage  of  his 
future  greatuess.  Alas !  no  bell  rung  in  invitation  to  us,  as  we 
looked  disconsolately  upon  the  distant  city.  Old  London 
seemed  to  wrap  itself  up  unsociably  in  its  mantle  of  brown 
smoke,  and  to  offer  no  encouragement  to  such  a  couple  of 
tatterdemalions. 

For  once,  at  least,  the  usual  course  of  the  pantomime  was 
reversed.  Harlequin  was  jilted,  and  the  lover  had  carried  off 
Columbine  in  good  earnest.  But  what  was  I  to  do  with  her? 
I  had  never  contemplated  such  a  dilemma ;  and  I  now  felt  that 
even  a  fortunate  lover  may  be  embarrassed  by  his  good  for- 
tune. I  really  knew  not  what  was  to  become  of  me ;  for  I  had 
still  the  boyish  fear  of  returning  home ;  standing  in  awe  of  the 
stern  temper  of  my  father,  and  dreading  the  ready  arm  of  the 
pedagogue.  And  even  if  I  were  to  venture  home,  what  was  I 
to  do  with  Columbine?  I  could  not  take  her  in  my  hand,  and 
throw  myself  on  my  knees,  and  crave  his  forgiveness  and  his 
blessing  according  to  dramatic  usage.  The  very  dogs  would 
have  chased  such  a  draggle-tailed  beauty  from  the  grounds. 

In  the  midst  of  my  doleful  dumps,  some  one  tapped  me  on 
the  shoulder,  and  looking  up  I  saw  a  couple  of  rough  sturdy 
fellows  standing  behind  me.  Not  knowing  what  to  expect  I 
jumped  on  my  legs,  and  was  preparing  again  to  make  battle ; 
but  I  was  tripped  up  and  secured  in  a  twinkling. 

4 '  Come,  come,  young  master, "  said  one  of  the  fellows  in  a 
gruJf ,  but  good-humored  tone,  ' '  don't  let's  have  any  of  your 


THE   YOUXG   MAS  OF  QRBAT  EXPECTATION'S.     11? 

tantrums;  one  would  have  thought  that  you  had  had  swing 
enough  for  this  bout.  Come,  it's  high  time  to  leave  off  harle* 
quinading,  and  go  home  to  your  father." 

In  fact  I  had  a  couple  of  Bow  street  officers  hold  of  me.  The 
cruel  Sacharissa  had  proclaimed  who  I  was,  and  that  a  reward 
had  been  offered  throughout  the  country  for  any  tidings  of  me : 
and  they  had  seen  a  description  of  me  that  had  been  forwarded 
to  the  police  office  in  town.  Those  harpies,  therefore,  for  the 
mere  sake  of  filthy  lucre,  were  resolved  to  deliver  me  over  into 
the  hands  of  my  father  and  the  clutches  of  my  pedagogue. 

It  was  in  vain  that  I  swore  I  would  not  leave  my  faithful  and 
afflicted  Columbine.  It  was  in  vain  that  I  tore  myself  from 
their  grasp,  and  flew  to  her ;  and  vowed  to  protect  her ;  and 
wiped  the  tear's  from  her  cheek,  and  with  them  a  whole  blush 
that  might  have  vied  with  the  carnation  for  brilliancy.  My 
persecutors  were  inflexible ;  they  even  seemed  to  exult  in  our 
distress ;  and  to  enjoy  this  theatrical  display  of  dirt,  and  finery, 
and  tribulation.  I  was  carried  off  in  despair,  leaving  my 
Columbine  destitute  in  the  wide  world;  but  many  a  look  of 
agony  did  I  cast  back  at  her,  as  she  stood  gazing  piteously  after 
me  from  the  brink  of  Hempstead  Hill ;  so  forlorn,  so  fine,  so 
ragged,  so  bedraggled,  yet  so  beautiful. 

Thus  ended  my  first  peep  into  the  world.  I  returned  home, 
rich  in  good-for-nothing  experience,  and  dreading  the  reward  I 
was  to  receive  for  my  improvement.  My  reception,  however, 
was  quite  different  from  what  I  had  expected.  My  father  had 
a  spice  of  the  devil  in  him,  and  did  not  seem  to  like  me  the 
worse  for  my  freak,  which  he  termed  "  sowing  my  wild  oats." 
He  happened  to  have  several  of  his  sporting  friends  to  dine 
with  him  the  very  day  of  my  return ;  they  made  me  tell  some 
of  my  adventures,  and  laughed  heartily  at  them.  One  old  fel- 
low, with  an  outrageously  red  nose,  took  to  me  hugely.  I 
heard  him  whisper  to  my  father  that  I  was  a  lad  of  mettle,  and 
might  make  something  clever ;  to  which  my  father  replied  that 
1  k  I  had.  good  points,  but  was  an  ill-broken  whelp,  and  required 
a  ^reat  deal  of  the  whip."  Perhaps  this  very  conversation 
raised  me  a  little  in  his  esteem,  for  I  found  the  red-nosed  old 
gentleman  was  a  veteran  fox-hunter  of  the  neighborhood,  for 
whose  opinion  my  father  had  vast  deference.  Indeed,  I  believe 
he  would  have  pardoned  anything  in  me  more  readily  than 
poetry;  which  he  called  a  cursed,  sneaking,  puling,  house- 
keeping employment,  the  bane  of  all  true  manhood.  He  swore 
it  was  unworthy  of  a  youngster  of  my  expectations,  who  was 


!  lb  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER, 

one  day  to  have  so  great  an  estate,  and  would  be  able  to  keep 
horses  and  hounds  and  hire  poets  to  write  songs  for  him  into 
the  bargain. 

I  had  now  satisfied,  for  a  time,  my  roving  propensity.  I  had 
exhausted  the  poetical  feeling.  I  had  been  heartily  buffeted 
out  of  my  love  for  theatrical  display.  I  felt  humiliated  by  my 
exposure,  and  was  willing  to  hide  my  head  anywhere  for  a 
season ;  so  that  I  might  be  out  of  the  way  of  the  ridicule  of  the 
world ;  for  I  found  folks  not  altogether  so  indulgent  abroad  as 
they  were  at  my  father's  table.  I  could  not  stay  at  home;  the 
house  was  intolerably  doleful  now  that  my  mother  was  no  longer 
there  to  cherish  me.  Every  thing  around  spoke  mournfully  of 
her.  The  little  flower-garden  in  which  she  delighted  was  all  in 
disorder  and  overrun  with  weeds.  I  attempted,  for  a  day  or 
two,  to  arrange  it,  but  my  heart  grew  heavier  and  heavier  as  I 
labored.  Every  little  broken-down  flower  that  I  had  seen  her 
rear  so  tenderly,  seemed  to  plead  in  mute  eloquence  to  my 
feelings.  There  was  a  favorite  honeysuckle  which  I  had  seen 
her  often  training  with  assiduity,  and  had  heard  her  say  it 
should  be  the  pride  of  her  garden.  I  found  it  grovelling  along 
the  ground,  tangled  and  wild,  and  twining  round  every  worth- 
less weed,  and  it  struck  me  as  an  emblem  of  myself :  a  mere 
scatterling,  running  to  waste  and  uselessness.  I  could  work  no 
longer  in  the  garden. 

My  father  sent  me  to  pay  a  visit  to  my  uncle,  by  way  of 
keeping  the  old  gentleman  in  mind  of  me.  I  was  received,  as 
usual,  without  any  expression  of  discontent ;  which  we  always 
considered  equivalent  to  a  hearty  welcome.  Whether  he  had 
ever  heard  of  my  strolling  freak  or  not  I  could  not  discover ;  he 
and  his  man  were  both  so  taciturn.  I  spent  a  day  or  two 
roaming  about  the  dreary  mansion  and  neglected  park;  and 
felt  at  one  time,  I  believe,  a  touch  of  poetry,  for  I  was  tempted 
to  drown  myself  in  a  fish-pond ;  I  rebuked  the  evil  spirit,  how- 
ever, and  it  left  me.  I  found  the  same  red-headed  boy  running 
wild  about  the  park,  but  I  felt  in  no  humor  to  hunt  him  at 
present.  On  the  contrary,  I  tried  to  coax  him  to  me,  and  to 
make  friends  with  him,  but  the  young  savage  was  untameable. 

When  I  returned  from  my  uncle's  I  remained  at  home  for 
some  time,  for  my  father  was  disposed,  he  said,  to  make  a  man 
of  me.  He  took  me  out  hunting  with  him,  and  I  became  a 
great  favorite  of  the  red-nosed  squire,  because  I  rode  at  every- 
thing ;  never  refused  the  boldest  leap,  and  was  always  sure  to 
be  in  at  the  death.     I  used  often,  however,  to  offend  my  father 


THIS    YOUNQ   MAN  OF  GREAT  EXPECTATIONS.     HQ 

at  hunting  dinners,  betaking  the  wrong  side  in  politics.  M\ 
father  was  amazingly  ignorant — so  ignorant,  in  fact,  as  not  to 
know  that  he  knew  nothing.  He  was  staunch,  however,  to 
church  and  king,  and  full  of  old-fashioned  prejudices.  Now.  I 
had  picked  up  a  little  knowledge  in  politics  and  religion,  during 
my  rambles  with  the  strollers,  and  found  myself  capable  of  set- 
ting him  right  as  to  many  of  his  antiquated  notions.  I  felt  it 
my  duty  to  do  so;  we  were  apt,  therefore,  to  differ  occasionally 
in  the  political  discussions  that  sometimes  arose  at  these  hunt- 
ing dinners. 

I  was  at  that  age  when  a  man  knows  least  and  is  most  vain 
of  his  knowledge ;  and  when  he  is  extremely  tenacious  in  defend- 
ing his  opinion  upon  subjects  about  which  he  knows  nothing. 
My  father  was  a  hard  man  for  any  one  to  argue  with,  for  ho 
never  knew  when  he  was  refuted.  I  sometimes  posed  him  a 
little,  but  then  he  had  one  argument  that  always  settled  the 
question;  he  would  threaten  to  knock  me  down.  I  believe  he 
at  last  grew  tired  of  me,  because  I  both  out-talked  and  outrode 
him.  The  red-nosed  squire,  too,  got  out  of  conceit  of  me,  be- 
cause in  the  heat  of  the  chase,  I  rode  over  him  one  day  as  he 
and  his  horse  lay  sprawling  in  the  dirt.  My  father,  therefore, 
thought  it  high  time  to  send  me  to  college ;  and  accordingly  to 
Trinity  College  at  Oxford  was  I  sent. 

I  had  lost  my  habits  of  study  while  at  home ;  and  I  was  not 
likely  to  find  them  again  at  college.  I  found  that  study  was 
not  the  fashion  at  college,  and  that  a  lad  of  spirit  only  ate  his 
terms ;  and  grew  wise  by  dint  of  knife  and  fork.  I  was  always 
prone  to  follow  the  fashions  of  the  company  into  which  I  fell ; 
so  I  threw  by  my  books,  and  became  a  man  of  spirit.  As  my 
father  made  me  a  tolerable  allowance,  notwithstanding  the 
narrowness  of  Ins  income,  having  an  eye  always  to  my  great 
expectations,  I  was  enabled  to  appear  to  advantage  among  my 
fellow-students.  I  cultivated  all  kinds  of  sports  and  exercises. 
T  was  one  of  the  most  expert  oarsmen  that  rowed  on  the  Isis. 
I  boxed  and  fenced.  I  was  a  keen  huntsman,  and  my  chambers 
in  college  were  always  decorated  with  whips  of  all  kinds,  spurs. 
foils,  and  boxing  gloves.  A  pair  of  leather  breeches  would 
seem  to  be  throwing  one  leg  out  of  the  half -open  drawers,  and 
empty  bottles  lumbered  the  bottom  of  every  closet. 

I  soon  grew  tired  of  this,  and  relapsed  into  my  vein  of  mere 
poetical  indulgence.  I  was  charmed  with  Oxford,  for  it  was 
full  of  poetry  to  me.  I  thought  I  should  never  grow  tired  of 
wandering  aboul  its  courts  and  cloisters;  and  visiting  the  dif- 


120  TALES  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

ferent  college  nails.  I  used  to  love  to  get  in  places  surrounded 
by  the  colleges,  where  all  modern  buildings  were  screened  from 
the  sight ;  and  to  walk  about  them  in  twilight,  and  see  the  pro- 
fessors and  students  sweeping  along  in  the  dusk  in  their  caps 
and  gowns.  There  was  complete  delusion  in  the  scene.  It 
seemed  to  transport  me  among  the  edifices  and  the  people  of 
old  times.  It  was  a  great  luxury,  too,  for  me  to  attend  the 
evening  service  in  the  new  college  chapel,  and  to  hear  the  fine 
organ  and  the  choir  swelling  an  anthem  in  that  solemn  build- 
ing ;  where  painting  and  music  and  architecture  seem  to  com- 
bine their  grandest  effects. 

I  became  a  loiterer,  also,  about  the  Bodleian  library,  and  a 
great  dipper  into  books;  but  too  idle  to  follow  any  course  of 
study  or  vein  of  research.  One  of  my  favorite  haunts  was  the 
beautiful  walk,  bordered  by  lofty  elms,  along  the  Isis,  under 
the  old  gray  walls  of  Magdalen  College,  which  goes  by  the 
name  of  Addison's  Walk ;  and  was  his  resort  when  a  student 
at  the  college.  I  used  to  take  a  volume  of  poetry  in  my  hand, 
and  stroll  up  and  down  this  walk  for  hours. 

My  father  came  to  see  me  at  college.  He  asked  me  how  I 
came  on  with  my  studies ;  and  what  kind  of  hunting  there  was 
in  the  neighborhood.  He  examined  my  sporting  apparatus; 
wanted  to  know  if  any  of  the  professors  were  fox-hunters ;  and 
whether  they  were  generally  good  shots;  for  he  suspected  this 
reading  so  much  was  rather  hurtful  to  the  sight.  Such  was  the 
only  person  to  whom  I  was>  responsible  for  my  improvement : 
is  it  matter  of  wonder,  therefore,  that  I  became  a  confirmed 
idler  i 

I  do  not  know  how  it  is,  but  I  cannot  be  idle  long  without 
getting  in  love.  I  became  deeply  smitten  with  a  shopkeeper's 
daughter  in  the  high  street ;  who  in  fact  was  the  admiration  of 
many  of  the  students.  I  wrote  several  sonnets  in  praise  of  her, 
and  spent  half  of  my  pocket-money  at  the  shop,  in  buying  arti- 
cles which  I  did  not  want,  that  I  might  have  an  opportunity  of 
speaking  to  her.  Her  father,  a  severe-looking  old  gentleman, 
with  bright  silver  buckles  and  a  crisp,  curled  wig,  kept  a  strict- 
guard  on  her ;  as  the  fathers  generally  do  upon  their  daughters 
in  Oxford ;  and  well  they  may.  I  tried  to  get  into  his  good 
graces,  and  to  be  sociable  with  him ;  but  in  vain.  I  said  several 
good  things  in  his  shop,  but  he  never  laughed ;  he  had  no  relish 
for  wit  and  humor.  He  was  one  of  those  dry  old  gentlemen 
who  keep  youngsters  at  bay.  He  had  already  brought  up  two 
or  three  daughters,  and  was  experienced  in  the  ways  of  students. 


THE   TOUNQ    MAN  OF  G  UK  AT  EXPECTATIONS.    121 

He  was  as  knowing  and  wary  as  a  gray  old  badger  that  has 
often  been  hunted.  To  see  him  on  Sunday,  so  stiff  and  starched 
in  his  demeanor ;  so  precise  in  his  dress ;  with  his  daughter  under 
his  arm,  and  his  ivory -headed  cane  in  his  hand,  was  enough  to 
deter  all  graceless  youngsters  from  approaching. 

I  managed,  however,  in  spite  of  his  vigilance,  to  have  several 
conversations  with  the  daughter,  as  I  cheapened  articles  in  the 
shop.  I  made  terrible  long  bargains,  and  examined  the  articles 
over  and  over,  before  I  purchased.  In  the  meantime,  I  would 
convey  a  sonnet  or  an  acrostic  under  cover  of  a  piece  of  cam- 
bric, or  slipped  into  a  pair  of  stockings ;  I  would  whisper  soft 
nonsense  into  her  ear  as  I  haggled  about  the  price ;  and  would 
squeeze  her  hand  tenderly  as  I  received  my  halfpence  of  change, 
in  a  bit  of  whity-brown  paper.  Let  this  serve  as  a  hint  to  all 
haberdashers,  who  have  pretty  daughters  for  shop-girls,  and 
young  students  for  customers.  I  do  not  know  whether  my 
words  and  looks  were  very  eloquent ;  but  my  poetry  was  irre- 
sistible ;  for,  to  tell  the  truth,  the  girl  had  some  literary  taste, 
and  was  seldom  without  a  book  from  the  circulating  library. 

By  the  divine  power  of  poetry,  therefore,  which  is  irresistible 
with  the  lovely  sex,  did  I  subdue  the  heart  of  this  fair  little 
haberdasher.  We  carried  on  a  sentimental  correspondence  for 
a  time  across  the  counter,  and  I  supplied  her  with  rhyme  by 
the  stockingful.  At  length  I  prevailed  on  her  to  grant  me  an 
assignation.  But  how  was  it  to  be  effected?  Her  father  kept 
her  always  under  his  eye ;  she  never  walked  out  alone ;  and  the 
house  was  locked  up  the  moment  that  the  shop  was  shut.  All 
these  difficulties  served  but  to  give  zest  to  the  adventure.  I 
proposed  that  the  assignation  should  be  in  her  own  chamber 
into  which  I  would  climb  at  night.  The  plan  was  irresistible. 
A  cruel  father,  a  secret  lover,  and  a  clandestine  meeting !  All 
the  little  girl's  studies  from  the  circulating  library  seemed  about 
to  be  realized.  But  what  had  I  in  view  in  making  this  assigna- 
tion? Indeed  I  know  not.  I  had  no  evil  intentions;  nor  can  I 
say  that  I  had  any  good  ones.  I  liked  the  girl,  and  wanted  to 
have  an  opportunity  of  seeing  more  of  her ;  and  the  assignation 
was  made,  as  I  have  done  many  things  else,  heedlessly  and 
without  forethought.  I  asked  myself  a  few  questions  of  the 
kind,  after  all  my  arrangements  were  made ;  but  the  answers 
were  very  unsatisfactory.  ' '  Am  I  to  ruin  this  poor  thoughtless 
girl?"  said  I  to  myself.  "No!"  was  the  prompt  and  indignant 
answer.  "Am  I  to  run  away  with  her?"  "Whither— and  to 
what  purpose?"     "Well,  then,  am  I  to  marry  her?"—"  Pah!  a 


[22  TALES  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

man  of   my  expectations  marry  a  shopkeepers    daughter  !fl 

''What,  then,  am  I  to  do  with  her?"     "Hum—  why. Let  me 

get  into  her  chamber  first,  and  then  c<  insider  "  —and  so  the  self- 
examination  ended. 

Well,  sir,  "  come  what  come  might,"  I  stole  under  cover  of 
the  darkness  to  the  dwelling  of  my  dulcinea.  All  was  quiet. 
At  the  concerted  signal  her  window  was  gently  opened.  It  was* 
just  above  the  projecting  bow- window  of  her  father's  shop, 
which  assisted  me  in  mounting.  The  house  was  low,  and  I  was 
enabled  to  scale  the  fortress  with  tolerable  ease.  I  clambered 
with  a  beating  heart;  I  reached  the  casement;  I  hoisted  my 
body  half  into  the  chamber  and  was  welcomed,  not  by  the 
embraces  of  my  expecting  fair  one,  but  by  the  grasp  of  the 
crabbed-looking  old  fathei  in  the  crisp  curled  wig. 

I  extricated  myself  from  his  clutches  and  endeavored  tc 
make  my  retreat;  but  I  was  confounded  by  his  cries  of 
thieves!  and  robbers!  I  was  bothered,  too,  by  his  Sunday 
cane;  which  was  amazingly  busy  about  my  head  as  I  de- 
scended ;  and  against  which  my  hat  was  but  a  poor  protec- 
tion. Never  before  had  I  an  idea  of  the  activity  of  an  old 
man's  arm,  and  hardness  of  the  knob  of  an  ivory-headed  cane. 
In  my  hurry  and  confusion  I  missed  my  footing,  and  fell 
sprawling  on  the  pavement.  I  was  immediately  surrounded 
by  myrmidons,  who  I  doubt  not  were  on  the  watch  for  me. 
Indeed,  I  was  in  no  situation  to  escape,  for  I  had  sprained  my 
ankle  in  the  fall,  and  could  not  stand.  I  was  seized  as  a  house- 
breaker ;  and  to  exonerate  myself  from  a  greater  crime  I  had 
to  accuse  myself  of  a  less.  I  made  known  who  I  was,  and  why 
I  came  there.  Alas!  the  varlets  knew  it  already,  and  were 
only  amusing  themselves  at  my  expense.  My  perfidious  muse 
had  been  playing  me  one  of  her  slippery  tricks.  The  old  cur- 
mudgeon of  a  father  had  found  my  sonnets  and  acrostics  hid 
away  in  holes  and  corners  of  his  shop;  he  had  no  taste  for 
poetry  like  his  daughter,  and  had  instituted  a  rigorous  though 
silent  observation.  He  had  moused  upon  our  letters;  detected 
the  ladder  of  ropes,  and  prepared  everything  for  my  reception. 
Thus  was  I  ever  doomed  to  be  led  into  scrapes  by  the  muse. 
Let  no  man  henceforth  carry  on  a  secret  amour  in  poetry. 

The  old  man's  ire  was  in  some  measure  appeased  by  the  pum- 
melling of  my  head,  and  the  anguish  of  my  sprain;  so  he  did 
not  put  me  to  death  on  the  spot.  He  was  even  humane  enough 
to  furnish  a  shutter,  on  which  I  was  carried  back  to  the  college 
like  a  wounded  warrior.    The  porter  was  roused  to  admit  me ; 


77//-:   YOUNG    MAN  OF  GREAT  EXPECTATIONS     128 

t>he  college  gate  was  thrown  open  for  my  entry ;  the  affair  was 
blazed  abroad  the  next  morning,  and  became  the  joke  of  the 
college  from  the  buttery  to  the  hall. 

I  had  leisure  10  repent  during  several  weeks'  confinement  by 
my  sprain,  which  I  passed  in  translating  Boethius'  Consola- 
tions of  Philosophy.  I  received  a  most  tender  and  ill-spelled 
letter  from  my  mistress,  who  had  been  sent  to  a  relation  in 
Coventry.  She  protested  her  innocence  of  my  misfortunes, 
and  vowed  to  be  true  to  me  "till  death."  I  took  no  notice  of 
the  letter,  for  I  was  cured,  for  the  present,  both  of  love  and 
poetry.  Women,  however,  are  more  constant  in  their  attach- 
ments than  men.  whatever  philosophers  may  say  to  the  con- 
trary. I  am  assured  that  she  actually  remained  faithful  to  her 
vow  for  several  months ;  but  she  had  to  deal  with  a  cruel  father 
whose  heart  was  as  hard  as  the  knob  of  his  cane.  He  was  not 
to  be  touched  by  tears  or  poetry ;  but  absolutely  compelled  her 
to  marry  a  reputable  young  tradesman ;  who  made  her  a  happy 
woman  in  spite  of  herself,  and  of  all  the  rules  of  romance ;  and 
what  is  more,  the  mother  of  several  children.  They  are  at  this 
very  day  a  thriving  couple  and  keep  a  snug  corner  shop,  just 
opposite  the  figure  of  Peeping  Tom  at  Coventry. 

I  will  not  fatigue  you  by  any  more  details  of  my  studies  at 
Oxford,  though  they  were  not  always  as  severe  as  these ;  nor 
did  I  always  pay  as  dear  for  my  lessons.  People  may  say  what 
they  please,  a  studious  life  has  its  charms,  and  there  are  many 
places  more  gloomy  than  the  cloisters  of  a  university. 

To  be  brief,  then.  I  lived  on  in  my  usual  miscellaneous  maimer, 
gradually  getting  a  knowledge  of  good  and  evil,  until  I  had  at- 
tained my  twenty-first  year.  I  had  scarcely  come  of  age  when 
1  heard  of  the  sddden  death  of  my  father.  The  shook  was  se- 
vere, for  though  he  had  never  treated  me  with  kindness,  still 
he  was  my  father,  and  at  his  death  I  felt  myself  alone  in  the 
W(  >rld.  * 

I  returned  home  to  act  as  chief  mourner  at  his  funeral.  It 
was  attended  by  many  of  the  sportsmen  of  the  country;  for  he 
was  an  important  member  of  their  fraternity.  According  to 
Eisrequ^t  his  favorite  hunter  was  led  after  the  hearse.  The 
"°d-nosed  fox-hunter,  who  had  taken  a  little  too  much  wine  at 
cfie  nouse.  made  a  maudlin  eulogy  of  the  deceased,  and  wished 
to  give  the  view  halloo  over  the  grave;  but  he  was  rebuked  by 
the  rest  of  the  company.  They  all  shook  me  kindly  by  the 
hand,  said  many  consolatory  things  to  me,  and  invited  me  to 
become  a  member  of  the  hunt  in  my  father's  pla. 


124  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER 

When  I  found  myself  alone  in  my  paternal  home,  a  crowd  of 
gloomy  feelings  came  thronging  upon  me.  It  was  a  place  that 
always  seemed  to  sober  me,  and  bring  me  to  reflection.  Now, 
especially,  it  looked  so  deserted  and  melancholy ;  the  furniture 
diplaced  about  the  room;  the  chairs  in  groups,  as  their  departed 
occupants  had  sat,  either  in  whispering  tete-a-tetes,  or  gossip- 
ing clusters;  the  bottles  and  decanters  and  wine-glasses,  half 
emptied,  and  scattered  about  the  tables— all  dreary  traces  of  a 
funeral  festival.  I  entered  the  little  breakfasting  room.  There 
were  my  father's  whip  and  spurs  hanging  by  the  fire-place,  and 
his  favorite  pointer  lying  on  the  hearth-rug.  The  poor  animal 
came  fondling  about  me.  and  licked  my  hand,  though  he  had 
never  before  noticed  me;  and  then  he  looked  round  the  room, 
and  whined,  and  wagged  his  tail  slightly,  and  gazed  wistfully 
in  my  face.  I  felt  the  full  force  of  the  appeal.  "Poor  Dash!" 
said  I.  '*  we  are  both  alone  in  the  world,  with  nobody  to  care 
for  us,  and  we'll  take  care  of  one  another."  The  dog  never 
quitted  me  afterwards. 

I  could  not  go  into  my  mother's  room:  my  heart  swelled 
when  I  passed  within  sight  of  the  door.  Her  portrait  hung  in 
the  parlor,  just  over  the  place  where  she  used  to  sit.  As  I  cast 
my  eyes  on  it  I  thought  it  looked  at  me  with  tenderness,  and  I 
burst  into  tears.  My  heart  had  long  been  seared  by  living  in 
public  schools,  and  buffeting  about  among  strangers  who  cared 
nothing  for  me ;  but  the  recollection  of  a  mother's  tenderness 
was  overcoming. 

I  was  not  of  an  age  or  a  temperament  to  be  long  depressed. 
There  was  a  reaction  in  my  system  that  always  brought  me  up 
again  at  every  pressure ;  and  indeed  my  spirits  were  most  buoy- 
ant after  a  temporary  prostration.  I  settled  the  concerns  of  the 
estate  as  soon  as  possible;  realized  my  property,  which  wras 
not  very  considerable,  but  which  appeared  a  vast  deal  to  me, 
having  a  poetical  eye  that  magnified  everything ;  and  finding 
myself,  at  the  end  of  a  few  months,  free  of  all  farther  business 
or  restraint,  I  determined  to  go  to  London  and  enjoy  myself. 
Why  should  not  I? — I  was  young,  animated,  joyous;  had 
plenty  of  funds  for  present  pleasures,  and  my  uncle's  estate  in 
the  perspective.  Let  those  mope  at  college  and  pore  over  books, 
thought  I,  who  have  their  way  to  make  in  the  world ;  it  would 
be  ridiculous  drudgery  in  a  youth  of  my  expectations. 

Well,  sir,  away  to  London  I  rattled  in  a  tandem,  determined 
to  take  the  town  gaily.  I  passed  through  several  of  the  villages 
where  I  had  played  the  jack-pudding  a  few  years  before ;  and 


TEE   YOUNQ  MAX  OF  GREAT  EXPECTATIONS.     12.7 

I  visited  the  scenes  of  many  of  my  adventures  and  follies, 
merely  from  that  feeling  of  melancholy  pleasure  which  we  have 
in  stepping  again  into  the  footprints  of  foregone  existence,  even 
when  they  have  passed  among  weeds  and  briars.  I  made  a 
circuit  in  the  latter  part  of  my  journey,  so  as  to  take  in  West 
End  and  Hempstead,  the  scenes  of  my  last  dramatic  exploit, 
and  of  the  battle  royal  of  the  booth.  As  I  drove  along  the 
ridge  of  Hempstead  Hill,  by  Jack  Straw's  castle,  I  paused  at 
the  spot  where  Columbine  and  I  had  sat  down  so  disconsolately 
in  our  ragged  finery,  and  looked  dubiously  upon  London.  I 
almost  expected  to  see  her  again,  standing  on  the  hill's  brink, 
"like  Niobe  all  tears;"'— mournful  as  Babylon  in  rains! 

"  Poor  Columbine !"•  said  I,  with  a  heavy  sigh,  "thou  wort  a 
gallant,  generous  girl— a  true  woman,  faithful  to  the  dis- 
tressed, and  ready  to  sacrifice  thyself  in  the  cause  of  worthless 
man !" 

I  tried  to  whistle  off  the  recollection  of  her;  for  there  was 
al  ways  something  of  self-reproach  with  it.  I  drove  gayly  along 
the  road,  enjoying  the  stare  of  hostlers  and  stable-boys  as  I 
managed  my  horses  knowingly  down  the  steep  street  of  Hemp- 
stead ;  when,  just  at  the  skirts  of  the  village,  one  of  the  traces 
of  my  leader  came  loose.  I  pulled  up ;  and  as  the  animal  was 
restive  and  my  servant  a  bungler,  I  called  for  assistance  to  the 
robustious  master  of  a  snug  ale-house,  who  stood  at  his  door 
with  a  tankard  in  his  hand.  He  came  readily  to  assist  me, 
followed  by  his  wife,  with  her  bosom  half  open,  a  child  in  her 
arms,  and  two  more  at  her  heels.  I  stared  for  a  moment  as  if 
doubting  my  eyes.  I  could  not  be  mistaken ;  in  the  fat,  beer- 
blown  landlord  of  the  ale-house  I  recognized  my  old  rival  Har- 
lequin, and  in  his  slattern  spouse,  the  once  trim  and  dimpling 
Columbine. 

The  change  of  my  looks,  from  youth  to  manhood,  and  the 
change  of  my  circumstances,  prevented  them  from  recognizing 
me.  They  could  not  suspect,  in  the  dashing  young  buck,  fash- 
ionably dressed,  and  driving  his  own  equipage,  their  former 
comrade,  the  painted  beau,  with  old  peaked  hat  and  long, 
flimsy,  sky-blue  coat.  My  heart  yearned  with  kindness  to- 
wards Columbine,  and  I  was  glad  to  see  her  establishment  a 
thriving  one.  As  soon  as  the  harness  was  adjusted,  I  tossed 
a  small  purse  of  gold  into  her  ample  bosom;  and  then,  pre- 
tending give  my  horses  a  hearty  cut  of  the  whip,  I  made  the 
lash  curl  with  a  whistling  about  tbe  sleek  sides  of  ancient 
Harlequin,     The  horses  dashed  off  like  lightning,  and  1  was 


196  TALES  OF  J    TRAVELLER. 

whirled  out  o>'  sight,  before  either  of  the  parties  could  get  over 
their  surprise  at  my  liberal  donations.  I  have  always  consid- 
ered this  as  one  of  the  greatest  proofs  of  my  poetical  genius. 
It  was  distributing  poetical  justice  in  perfection. 

I  now  entered  London  en  cavalier,  and  became  a  blood  upon 
town.  I  took  fashionable  lodgings  in  the  West  End ;  employed 
the  first  tailor;  frequented  the  regular  lounges;  gambled  a  lit- 
tle; lost  my  money  good-humoredly,  and  gained  a  number  of 
fashionable  good-for-nothing  acquaintances.  Had  I  had  more 
industry  and  ambition  in  my  nature,  I  might  have  worked  my 
way  to  the  very  height  of  fashion,  as  I  saw  many  laborious 
gentlemen  doing  around  me.  But  it  is  a  toilsome,  an  anxious, 
and  an  unhappy  life;  there  are  few  beings  so  sleepless  and 
miserable  a*J  your  cultivators  of  fashionable  smiles. 

I  was  quite  content  with  that  kind  of  society  which  forms  the 
frontiers  of  fashion,  and  may  be  easily  taken  possession  of.  I 
found  it  a  light,  easy,  productive  soil.  I  had  but  to  go  about 
and  sow  crisiting  cards,  and  I  reaped  a  whole  harvest  of  invita- 
tions. Indeed,  my  figure  and  address  were  by  no  means  against 
me.  It  was  whispered,  too,  among  the  young  ladies,  that  I 
was  prodigiously  clever,  and  wrote  poetry ;  and  the  old  ladies 
had  ascertained  that  I  was  a  young  gentleman  of  good  family, 
handsome  fortune,  and  "  great  expectations. " 

I  now  was  carried  away  by  the  hurry  of  gay  life,  so  intoxi- 
cating to  a  young  man ;  and  which  a  man  of  poetical  tempera- 
ment enjoys  so  highly  on  his  first  tasting  of  it.  That  rapid 
variety  of  sensations;  that  whirl  of  brilliant  objects;  that  suc- 
cession of  pungent  pleasures.  I  had  no  time  for  thought ;  I  only 
felt.  I  never  attempted  to  write  poetry ;  my  poetry  seemed  all 
to  go  off  by  transpiration.  I  lived  poetry ;  it  was  al]  a  poetical 
dream  to  me.  A  mere  sensualist  knows  nothing  of  the  delights 
of  a  splendid  metropolis.  He  lives  in  a  round  of  animal  grati- 
fications and  heartless  habits.  But  to  a  young  man  of  poetical 
feelings  it  is  an  ideal  world ;  a  scene  of  enchantment  and  de- 
lusion ;  his  imagination  is  in  perpetual  excitement,  and  gives  a 
spiritual  zest  to  every  pleasure. 

A  season  of  town  life  somewhat  sobered  me  of  my  intoxica- 
tion; or  rather  I  was  rendered  more  serious  by  one  of  my  old 
complaints — I  fell  in  love.  It  was  with  a  very  pretty,  though 
a  very  haughty  fair  one,  who  had  come  to  London  under  the 
care  of  an  old  maiden  aunt,  to  enjoy  the  pleasures  of  a  winter 
in  town,  and  to  get  married.  There  was  not  a  doubt  of  her 
commanding  a  choice  of  lovers ;  for  she  had  long  beon  the  b«Ue 


TME   YOmV  MAS  OF  (JUL AT  EXPECTATIONS.     |»J? 

of  n  little  cathedral  town:  and  one  of  the  prebendaries  had  ab- 
solutely celebrated  her  beauty  in  a  copy  of  Latin  verses. 

I  paid  my  court  to  her,  and  was  favorably  received  both  by 
her  and  her  aunt.  Nay,  I  had  a  marked  preference  shown  me 
over  the  younger  son  of  a  needy  baronet,  and  a  captain  of  dra- 
goons on  half  pay.  I  did  not  absolutely  take  the  field  in  form, 
for  I  was  determined  not  to  be  pecipitate;  but  I  drove  my 
equipage  frequently  through  the  street  in  which  she  lived,  and 
was  always  sure  to  see  her  at  the  window,  generally  with  a 
book  in  her  hand.  I  resumed  my  knack  at  rhyming,  and 
sent  her  a  long  copy  of  verses ;  anonymously  to  be  sure ;  but 
she  knew  my  handwriting.  They  displayed,  however,  the 
most  delightful  ignorance  on  the  subject.  The  young  lady 
showed  them  to  me ;  wondered  who  they  could  be  written  by ; 
and  declared  there  was  nothing  in  this  world  she  loved  so 
much  as  poetry :  while  the  maiden  aunt  would  put  her  pinch- 
ing spectacles  on  her  nose,  and  read  them,  with  blunders  in 
sense  and  sound,  that  were  excruciating  to  an  author's  ears; 
protesting  there  was  nothing  equal  to  them  in  the  whole  elegant 
extracts. 

The  fashionable  season  closed  without  my  adventuring  to 
make  a  declaration,  though  I  certainly  had  encouragement.  I 
was  not  perfectly  sure  that  I  had  effected  a  lodgment  in  the 
young  lady's  heart ;  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  the  aunt  overdid  her 
part,  and  was  a  little  too  extravagant  in  her  liking  of  me.  I 
knew  that  maiden  aunts  were  not  apt  to  be  captivated  by  the 
mere  personal  merits  of  their  nieces'  admirers,  and  I  wanted  to 
ascertain  how  much  of  all  this  favor  I  owed  to  my  driving  an 
equipage  and  having  great  expectations. 

I  had  received  many  hints  how  charming  their  native  town 
was  during  the  summer  months;  what  pleasant  society  they 
had;  and  what  beautiful  drives  about  the  neighborhood.  They 
had  not,  therefore,  returned  home  long,  before  I  made  my 
appearance  in  dashing  style,  driving  down  the  pi  incipal  street. 
It  is  an  easy  thing  to  put  a  little  quiet  cathedral  town  in  a  buzz. 
The  very  next  morning  I  was  seen  at  prayers,  seated  in  the  pew 
of  the  reigning  belle.  All  the  congregation  was  in  a  flutter. 
The  prebends  eyed  me  from  their  stalls ;  questions  were  whis- 
pered about  the  isles  after  service,  "  who  is  he?"  and  "  what  is 
he?"  and  the  replies  were  as  usual— "A  young  gentleman  of 
good  family  and  fortune,  and  great  expectations." 

I  was  pleased  with  the  peculiarities  of  a  cathedral  town, 
where  I  found  I  was  a  personage  of  some  consequence.     I  was 


128  TALES  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

quite  a  brilliant  acquisition  to  the  young  ladies  of  the  cathedral 
circle,  who  were  glad  to  have  a  beau  that  was  not  in  a  black 
coat  and  clerical  wig.  You  must  know  that  there  was  a  vast 
distinction  between  the  classes  of  society  of  the  town.  As  it 
was  a  place  of  some  trade,  there  were  many  wealthy  inhabitants 
among  the  commercial  and  manufacturing  classes,  who  lived 
in  style  and  gave  many  entertainments.  Nothing  of  trade, 
however,  was  admitted  into  the  cathedral  circle— faugh !  the 
thing  could  not  be  thought  of.  The  cathedral  circle,  therefore, 
was  apt  to  be  very  select,  very  dignified,  and  very  dull.  They 
had  evening  parties,  at  which  the  old  ladies  played  cards  with 
the  prebends,  and  the  young  ladies  sat  and  looked  on,  and 
shifted  from  one  chair  to  another  about  the  room,  until  it  was 
time  to  go  home. 

It  was  difficult  to  get  up  a  ball,  from  the  want  of  partners,  the 
cathedral  circle  being  very  deficient  in  dancers ;  and  on  those 
occasions,  there  was  an  occasional  drafting  among  the  dancing 
men  of  the  other  circle,  who,  however,  were  generally  regarded 
with  great  reserve  and  condescension  by  the  gentlemen  in 
powdered  wigs.  Several  of  the  young  ladies  assured  me,  in 
confidence,  that  they  had  often  looked  with  a  wistful  eye  at 
the  gayety  of  the  other  circle,  where  there  was  such  plenty  of 
young  beaux,  and  where  they  all  seemed  to  enjoy  themselves 
so  merrily;  but  that  it  would  be  degradation  to  think  of 
descending  from  their  sphere. 

I  admired  the  degree  of  old-fashioned  ceremony  and  super 
animated  courtesy  that  prevailed  in  this  little  place.  The  bow- 
ings and  courtsey ings  that  would  take  place  about  the  cathedral 
porch  after  morning  service,  where  knots  of  old  gentlemen  and 
ladies  would  collect  together  to  ask  after  each  other's  health, 
and  settle  the  card  party  for  the  evening.  The  little  presents 
of  fruits  and  delicacies,  and  the  thousand  petty  messages  that 
would  pass  from  house  to  house ;  for  in  a  tranquil  community 
like  this,  living  entirely  at  ease,  and  having  little  to  do,  little 
duties  and  little  civilities  and  little  amusements,  fill  up  the  day. 
I  have  smiled,  as  I  looked  from  my  window  on  a  quiet  street 
near  the  cathedral,  in  the  middle  of  a  warm  summer  day,  to  see 
a  corpulent  powdered  footman  in  rich  livery,  carrying  a  small 
tart  on  a  large  silver  salver.  A  dainty  titbit,  sent,  no  doubt,  by 
some  worthy  old  dowager,  to  top  off  the  dinner  of  her  favorite 
prebend. 

Nothing  could  be  more  delectable,  also,  than  the  breaking  up 
of  one  of  their  evening  card  parties.     Such  shaking  of  hands ; 


THE   YOUNQ   MAS   OF  QUI  \TIONS.    130 

such  mobbing  up  in  cloaks  and  tippets!  xnere  were  two  or 
three  old  sedan  chairs  that  did  the  duty  of  tie  whole  place; 
thougn  the  greater  part  made  their  exit  in  clogs  and  pattens, 
with  a  footman  or  waiting-maid  carrying  a  lanthorn  in 
advance;  and  at  a  certain  hour  of  the  night  the  clank  of 
pattens  and  the  gleam  of  these  jack  lanthorns,  here  and  there, 
about  the  quiet  little  town,  gave  notice  that  the  cathedral  card 
party  had  dissolved,  and  the  luminaries  were  severally  seeking 
their  homes.  To  such  a  community-,  therefore,  or  at  least  to 
the  female  part  of  it,  the  accession  of  a  gay,  dashing  young  beau 
was  a  matter  of  some  importance.  The  old  ladies  eyed  me  with 
complacency  through  their  spectacles,  and  the  young  ladies 
pronounced  me  divine.  Everybody  received  me  favorably, 
excepting  the  gentleman  who  had  written  the  Latin  verses  on 
the  belle.— Not  that  he  was  jealous  of  my  success  with  the 
lady,  for  he  had  no  pretensions  to  her;  but  he  heard  my  verseg 
praised  wherever  he  went,  and  he  could  not  endure  a  rival  with 
the  muse. 

I  was  thus  carrying  every  thing  before  me.  I  was  the  Adonis 
of  the  cathedral  circle ;  when  one  evening  there  was  a  public 
ball  which  was  attended  likewise  by  the  gentry  of  the  neighbor- 
hood. I  took  great  pains  with  my  toilet  on  the  occasion,  and  I 
had  never  looked  better.  I  had  determined  that  night  to  make 
my  grand  assault  on  the  heart  of  the  young  lady,  to  batter  it 
with  all  my  forces,  and  the  next  morning  to  demand  a  sur- 
render in  due  form. 

I  entered  the  ball-room  amidst  a  buzz  and  nutter,  which 
generally  took  place  among  the  young  ladies  on  my  appear 
I  was  in  fine  spirits;  for  to  tell  the  truth,  I  had  exhilarated 
myself  by  a  cheerful  glass  of  wine  on  the  occasion.  I  talked, 
and  rattled,  aud  said  a  thousand  silly  things,  slap-dash,  with 
ail  the  confidence  of  a  man  sure  of  his  auditors ;  and  every  thing 
had  its  effect. 

In  the  midst  of  my  triumph  I  observed  a  little  knot  gathering 
together  in  the  upper  part  of  the  room.     By  degrees  it  incrja 
A  tittering  broke  out  there;  and  glances  were  cast  round  a1 
and  then  there  would  be  fresh  tittering.     Some  of  the  young 
ladies  would  hurry  away  to  distant  parts  of  it 
whisper  to  their  friends;  \  •  they  went  there  was  nil 

this  titicring  and  glancing  at  me.  I  did  not  know  what  to 
make  of  all  this.  I  looked  at  myself  from  he,}..]  to  foot;  and 
peeped  at  my  back  in  a  glass.  if  any  th 

about  my  person;  any  awkward  exposure;  any  whimsical  tag 


t30  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER 

hanging  out— no— every  thing  was  right.    I  was  a  perfect  pic 

ture. 

I  determined  that  it  must  be  some  choice  saying  of  mine,  that 
was  bandied  about  in  this  knot  of  merry  beauties,  and  I  deter> 
mined  to  enjoy  one  of  my  good  things  in  the  rebound. 

I  stepped  gently,  therefore,  up  the  room,  smiling  at  every 
one  as  I  passed,  who  I  must  say  all  smiled  and  tittered  in 
return.  T  approached  the  group,  smirking  and  perking  my 
chin,  like  a  man  who  is  full  of  pleasant  feeling,  and  sure  of 
being  well  received.  The  cluster  of  little  belles  opened  as  I 
advanced. 

Heavens  and  earth !  whom  should  I  perceive  in  the  midst  of 
them,  but  my  early  and  tormenting  flame,  the  everlasting 
Sacharissa !  She  was  grown  up,  it  is  true,  into  the  full  beauty 
of  womanhood,  but  showed  by  the  provoking  merriment  of  her 
countenance,  that  she  perfectly  recollected  me,  and  the  ridicu- 
lous flagellations  of  which  she  had  twice  been  the  cause. 

I  saw  at  once  the  exterminating  cloud  of  ridicule  that  was 
bursting  over  me.  My  crest  fell.  The  flame  of  love  went  sud- 
denly out  in  my  bosom;  or  was  extinguished  by  overwhelm- 
ing shame.  How  I  got  down  the  room  I  know  not;  I  fancied 
every  one  tittering  at  me.  Just  as  I  reached  the  door,  I  caught 
a  glance  of  my  mistress  and  her  aunt,  listening  to  the  whis- 
pers of  my  poetic  rival ;  the  old  lady  raising  her  hands  and 
eyes,  and  the  face  of  the  young  one  lighted  up  with  scorn- 
ineffable.  I  paused  to  see  no  more;  but  made  two  steps  from 
the  top  of  the  stairs  to  the  bottom.  The  next  morning,  before 
sunrise,  I  beat  a  retreat;  and  did  not  feel  the  blushes  cool  from 
my  tingling  cheeks  until  I  had  lost  sight  of  the  old  towers  of 
the  cathedral. 

I  now  returned  to  town  thoughtful  and  crestfallen.  My 
money  was  nearly  spent,  for  I  had  lived  freely  and  without 
♦calculation.  The  dream  of  love  was  over,  and  the  reign  of 
pleasure  at  an  end.  I  determined  to  retrench  while  I  had  yet 
a  trifle  left;  so  selling  my  equipage  and  horses  for  half  their 
value,  I  quietly  put  the  money  in  my  pocket  and  turned 
pedestrian.  I  had  not  a  doubt  that,  with  my  great  expecta- 
tions, I  could  at  any  time  raise  funds,  either  on  usury  or  by 
borrowing;  but  I  was  principled  against  both  one  and  the 
other;  and  resolved,  by  strict  economy,  to  make  my  slender 
purse  hold  out,  until  my  uncle  should  give  up  the  ghost;  or 
rather,  the  estate. 
I  stayed  at  home,   therefore,   and  read,  and  would  have 


THE  YOUNG  MAJS   OF  GREAT  EXPECTATIONS.    131 

written ;  but  I  had  already  suffered  too  much  from  my  poeti- 
cal productions,  which  had  generally  involved  me  in  some 
ridiculous  scrape.  I  gradually  acquired  a  rusty  look,  and  had 
a  straightened,  money-borrowing  air,  upon  which  the  world 
began  to  shy  me.  I  have  never  felt  disposed  to  quarrel  with 
the  world  for  its  conduct.  It  has  always  used  me  well.  When 
I  have  been  flush,  and  gay,  and  disposed  for  society,  it  has 
caressed  me;  and  when  I  have  been  pinched,  and  reduced,  and 
wished  to  be  alone,  why,  it  has  left  me  alone,  and  what  more 
could  a  man  desire?— Take  my  word  for  it,  this  world  is  a  more 
obliging  world  than  people  generally  represent  it. 

Well,  sir,  in  the  midst  of  my  retrenchment,  my  retirement, 
and  my  studiousness,  I  received  news  that  my  uncle  was  dan- 
gerously ill.  I  hastened  on  the  wings  of  an  heir's  affection  to 
receive  his  dying  breath  and  his  last  testament.  I  found  him 
attended  by  his  faithful  valet,  old  Iron  John ;  by  the  woman 
who  occasionally  worked  about  the  house;  and  by  the  foxy- 
headed  boy,  young  Orson,  whom  I  had  occasionally  hunted 
about  the  park. 

Iron  John  gasped  a  kind  of  asthmatical  salutation  as  I 
entered  the  room,  and  received  me  with  something  almost  like 
a  smile  of  welcome.  The  woman  sat  blubbering  at  the  foot  of 
the  bed;  and  the  foxy -headed  Orson,  who  had  now  grown  to 
be  a  lubberly  lout,  stood  gazing  in  stupid  vacancy  at  a  dis- 
tance. 

My  uncle  lay  stretched  upon  his  back.  The  chamber  was 
without  a  fire,  or  any  of  the  comforts  of  a  sick-room.  The 
cobwebs  flaunted  from  the  ceiling.  The  tester  was  covered 
with  dust,  and  the  curtains  were  tattered.  From  underneath 
the  bed  peeped  out  one  end  of  his  strong  box.  Against  the 
wainscot  were  suspended  rusty  blunderbusses,  horse  pistols, 
and  a  cut-and-thrust  sword,  with  which  he  had  fortified  his 
room  to  defend  his  life  and  treasure.  He  had  employed  no 
physician  during  his  illness,  and  from  the  scanty  relics  lying 
on  the  table,  seemed  almost  to  have  denied  himself  the  assis 
tance  of  a  cook. 

When  I  entered  the  room  he  was  lying  motionless ;  with  his 
eyes  fixed  and  his  mouth  open;  at  the  first  look  I  thought  him 
a  corpse.  The  noise  of  my  entrance  made  him  turn  his  head. 
At  the  sight  of  me  a  ghastly  smile  came  over  his  face,  and  his 
glazing  eye  gleamed  with  satisfaction.  It  was  the  only  smile 
he  had  ever  given  me.  and  it  went  to  my  heart.  '"Poor  old 
man!"  thought  I,  "why  would  you  uotlet  melov<  Why 


132  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

would  you  force  me  to  leave  you  thus  desolate,  when  I  see  that 
my  presence  has  the  power  to  cheer  you?" 

"Nephew,"  said  he,  after  several  efforts,  and  in  a  low  gasp 
ing  voice— "lam  glad  you  are  come.  I  shall  now  die  with 
satisfaction.  Look,"  said  he,  raising  his  withered  hand  and 
pointing -"look— in  that  box  on  the  table  you  will  find  that  I 
have  not  forgotten  you.'' 

I  pressed  his  hand  to  my  heart,  and  the  tears  stood  m  my 
eyes,     i   Bat  down  by  his  bed-side,  and  watched  him,  but  he 
I  v  presence,  however,  gave  him  evident 
.  u— for  every  now  and  then,  as  he  looked  at  me,  a 
vague  smile  would  come  over  his  visage,  and  he  would  feebly 
point  to  the  sealed  box  on  the  table.     As  the  day  wore  away, 
his  life  seemed  to  wear  away  With  it.      Towards  sunset,  his 
sunk  on  the  bed  and  lay  motionless;    his  eyes  grew 
d;  his  mouth  remained  open,  and  thus  he  gradually  died. 
*  I  could  not  but  feel  shocked  at  this  absolute  extinction  of  my 
kindred.     I  dropped  a  tear  of  real  sorrow  over  this  strange  old 
man,  who  had  thus  reserved  his  smile  of  kindness  to  his  death- 
bed; like  an  evening  sun  after  a  gloomy  day,  just  shining  out 

ig  the  corpse  m  charge  of  the  domes- 
tics, I  retired  for  the  night. 

It  was  a  rough  night.  The  winds  seemed  as  if  singing  my 
uncle's  requiem  about  the  mansion;  and  the  bloodhounds 
howled  without  as  if  they  knew  of  the  death  of  their  old  mas- 
ter Iron  John  almost  grudged  me  the  tallow  candle  to  burn 
in  my  apartment  and  light  up  its  dreariness;  so  accustomed 
had  he  been  to  starveling  economy.  I  could  not  sleep.  The 
section  of  my  uncle's  dying  scene  and  the  dreary  sounds 
about  the  house,  affected  my  mind.  These,  however,  were 
-eded  by  plans  for  the  future,  and  I  lay  awake  the  greater 
part  of  the  night,  indulging  the  poetical  anticipation,  how  soon 
I  would  make  these  old  walls  ring  with  cheerful  life,  and 
restore  the  hospitality  of  my  mother's  ancestors. 

uncle's  funeral  was  decent,  but  private.  I  knew  there 
nobody  that  respected  his  memory;  and  I  was  determined 
that  none  should  be  summoned  to  sneer  over  Ins  funeral  wines 
and  make  merry  at  his  grave.  He  was  buried  in  the  church  ol 
the  neighboring  village,  though  it  was  not  the  burying  place 
of  his  race;  but  he  had  expressly  enjoined  that  he  should  not 
be  buried  with  his  family;  he  had  quarrelled  with  the  most  ot 
them  when  living,  and  he  carried  his  resentments  even  into  the 
grave. 


THE   TOUNQ  MAN  OF  GREAT  EXPECTATIONS.    133 

I  defrayed  the  expenses  of  the  funeral  out  of  my  own  purse, 
that  I  might  have  done  with  the  undertakers  at  once,  and  clear 
the  ill-omened  birds  from  the  premises.  I  invited  the  parson 
of  the  parish,  and  the  lawyer  from  the  village  to  attend  at  the 
house  the  next  morning  and  hear  the  reading  of  the  will.  J 
treated  them  to  an  excellent  breakfast,  a  profusion  that  had 
not  been  seen  at  the  house  for  many  a  year.  As  soon  as  the 
breakfast  things  were  removed,  I  summoned  Iron  John,  the 
WOmaa,  and  the  boy,  for  I  was  particular  of  having  every  one 
present  and  proceeding  regularly.  The  box  was  placed  on  the 
table.  AH  was  silence.  I  broke  the  seal ;  raised  the  lid ;  and 
beheld -not  the  will,  but  my  accursed  poem  of  Doubting  Castle 
and  Giant  Despair ! 

Could  any  mortal  have  conceived  that  this  old  withered  man; 
so  taciturn,  and  apparently  lost  to  feeling,  could  have  treasured 
Up  for  years  the  thoughtless  pleasantry  of  a  boy,  to  punish 
him  with  such  cruel  ingenuity?  I  could  now  accoimt  for  his 
dying  smile,  the  only  one  he  had  ever  given  me.  He  had  been 
a  grave  man  all  his  life ;  it  was  strange  that  he  should  die  in 
the  enjoyment  of  a  joke ;  and  it  was  hard  that  that  joke  should 
be  at  my  expense. 

The  lawyer  and  the  parson  seemed  at  a  loss  to  comprehend 
the  matter.  "Here  must  be  some  mistake,"'  said  the  lawyer, 
''there  is  no  will  here." 

"  Oh, "  said  Iron  John,  creaking  forth  his  rusty  jaws,  "  if  it  is 
a  will  you  are  looking  for,  I  believe  I  can  find  one." 

He  retired  with  the  same  singular  smile  with  which  he  had 
greeted  me  on  my  arrival,  and  which  I  now  apprehended  boded 
me  no  good.  In  a  little  while  he  returned  with  a  will  perfect 
at  all  points,  properly  signed  and  sealed  and  witnessed ;  worded 
with  horrible  correctness;  in  which  he  left  large  legacies  to 
Iron  John  and  his  daughter,  and  the  residue  of  his  fortune  to 
the  foxy-headed  boy ;  who,  to  my  utter  astonishment,  was  his 
son  by  this  very  woman ;  he  having  married  her  privately; 
and.  as  I  verily  believe,  for  no  other  purpose  than  to  have  an 
heir,  and  so  baulk  my  father  and  his  issue  of  the  inheritance. 
There  was  one  little  proviso,  in  which  he  mentioned  that  hav- 
ing discovered  his  nephew  to  have  a  pretty  turn  for  poetry,  fas 
presumed  he  had  no  occasion  for  wealth ;  he  recommended  him, 
however,  to  the  patronage  of  his  heir ;  and  requested  that  he 
might  have  a  garret,  rent  free,  in  Doubting  Castle. 


134  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER 

GRAVE  REFLECTIONS  OF  A  DISAPPOINTED  MAN. 

Mb   Buckthorne  had  paused  at  the  death  of  his  uncle,  and 

the  downfall  of  his  great  expectations,  which  formed,  as  he 

said  an  epoch  in  his  history ;  and  it  was  i...  until  some  little 

^line  afterwards/and  in  a  very  sober  mood,  that  he  resumed 

lis  particolored  narrative. 

After  leaving  the  domains  of  my  def imct  uncle,  said  he,  when 
the  sate  closed  between  me  and  what  was  once  to  have  been 
mine  I  felt  thrust  out  naked  into  the  world,  and  completely 
abandoned  to  fortune.  What  was  to  become  of  me?  I  had 
been  brought  up  to  nothing  but  expectations,  and  they  had  all 
been  disappointed.  I  had  no  relations  to  look  to  for  counsel 
or  assistance  The  world  seemed  all  to  have  di  d  away  from 
me  Wave  after  wave  of  relationship  had  ebbed  off,  and  I  was 
left  a  mere  hulk  upon  the  strand.  I  am  not  apt  to  be  great  y 
cast  down,  but  at  this  time  I  felt  sadly  disheartened.  I  could 
not  realize  my  situation,  nor  form  a  conjecture  how  I  was  to 
set  forward.  .  , 

I  was  now  to  endeavor  to  make  money.  The  idea  was  new 
and  strange  to  me.  It  was  like  being  asked  to  discover  the 
philosopher's  stone.  I  had  never  thought  about  money  other 
than  to  put  my  hand  into  my  pocket  and  find  it  or  it  there 
were  none  there,  to  wait  until  a  new  supply  came  from  home, 
I  had  considered  life  as  a  mere  space  of  time  to  be  filled  up  with 
enioyments;  but  to  have  it  portioned  out  into  long  hours  and 
days  of  toil,  merely  that  I  might  gain  bread  to  give  me  strength 
to  toil  on ;  to  labor  but  for  the  purpose  of  perpetuating  a  life  of 
labor  was  new  and  appaling  to  me.  This  may  appear  a  very 
^rnple  matter  to  some,  but  it  will  be  understood  by  every 
unlucky  wight  in  my  predicament,  who  has  had  the  misfortune 
of  being  born  to  great  expectations. 

I  passed  several  days  in  rambling  about  the  scenes  of  my  boy- 
hood ;  partly  because  I  absolutely  did  not  know  what  to  do  with 
myself,  and  partly  because  I  did  not  know  that  I  should  ever 
see  them  again.  'l  clung  to  them  as  one  clings  to  a  wreck, 
tnough  he  knows  he  must  eventually  cast  himself  loose  ana 
swim  for  his  life.  I  sat  down  on  a  hill  within  sight  of  my 
paternal  home,  but  I  did  not  venture  to  approach  it,  for  I  felt 
compunction  at  the  thoughtlessness  with  which  I  had ^dissip- 
ated my  patrimony.  But  was  I  to  blame,  when  I  had  the  rich 
possessions  of  my  curmudgeon  of  an  uncle  in  expectation? 


GRAVE  REFLECTIONS   or  a    DISAPPOINTED  MAN.     \X} 

The  new  possessor  of  the  place  was  making  great  alterations. 
The  house  was  almost  rebuilt.  The  trees  which  stood  about  it- 
were  cut  down ;  my  mother's  flower-garden  was  thrown  into  a 
lawn ;  all  was  undergoing  a  change.  I  turned  my  back  upon 
it  with  a  sigh,  and  rambled  to  another  part  of  the  country. 

How  thoughtful  a  little  adversity  makes  one.  As  I  came  in 
sight  of  the  school-house  where  I  had  so  often  been  flogged  in 
the  cause  of  wisdom,  you  would  hardly  have  recognized  the 
truant  boy  who  but  a  few  years  since  had  eloped  so  heedlessly 
from  its  walls.  I  leaned  over  the  paling  of  the  playground, 
and  watched  the  scholars  at  their  games,  and  looked  to  see  if 
there  might  not  be  some  urchin  among  them,  like  I  was  once, 
full  of  gay  dreams  about  life  and  the  world.  The  pky-ground 
seemed  smaller  than  when  I  used  to  sport  about  it.  The  house 
and  park,  too,  of  the  neighboring  squire,  the  father  of  the  cruel 
Sacharissa,  had  shrunk  in  size  and  diminished  in  magnificence. 
The  distant  hills  no  longer  appeared  so  far  off,  and,  alas !  no 
longer  awakened  ideas  of  a  fairy  land  beyond. 

As  I  was  rambling  pensively  through  a  neighboring  meadow, 
in  winch  I  had  many  a  time  gathered  primroses,  I  met  the  very 
pedagogue  who  had  been  the  tyrant  and  dread  of  my  boyhood. 
I  had  sometimes  vowed  to  myself,  when  suffering  under  his  rod, 
that  I  would  have  my  revenge  if  ever  I  met  him  when  I  had 
grown  to  be  a  man.  The  time  had  come ;  but  I  had  no  disposition 
to  keep  my  vow  The  few  years  which  had  matured  me  into  a 
a  vigorous  man  had  shrunk  him  into  decrepitude.  He  appeared 
to  have  had  a  paralytic  stroke.  I  looked  at  him,  and  wondered 
that  this  poor  helpless  mortal  could  have  been  an  object  of 
terror  to  me !  That  I  should  have  watched  with  anxiety  the 
glance  of  that  failing  eye,  or  dreaded  the  power  of  that  tremb- 
ling hand !  He  tottered  feebly  along  the  path,  and  had  some 
difficulty  in  gettinp;  over  a  stile.  I  ran  and  assisted  him.  He 
looked  at  me  with  surprise,  but  did  not  recognize  me,  and  made 
a  low  bow  of  humility  and  thanks.  I  had  no  disposition  to 
make  myself  known,  for  I  felt  that  I  had  nothing  to  boast  of. 
The  pains  he  had  taken  and  the  pains  he  had  inflicted  had  been 
equally  useless.  His  repeated  predictions  were  fully  verified, 
and  I  felt  that  little  Jack  Buckthorne,  the  idle  boy,  had  grown 
up  to  be  a  very  good-for-nothing  man. 

This  is  all  very  comfortless  detail ;  but  as  I  have  told  you  of 
my  follies,  it  is  meet  that  I  show  you  how  for  once  I  was 
schooled  for  them. 

The  most'  thoughtless  of  mortals  will  some  time  or  other  have 


136  TALES  OF  A   Ti:.l  VBLLBB. 

this  day  of  gloom,  when  he  will  be  compelled  to  reflect.  I  felt 
on  tin's  occasion  as  if  I  had  a  kind  of  penance  to  perform,  and  I 
made  a  pilgrimage  in  expiation  of  my  past  levity. 

Having  passed  a  night  at  Leamington,  I  set  off  by  a  private 
path  which  leads  up  a  hill,  through  a  grove,  and  across  quiet 
fields,  until  I  came  to  the  small  village,  or  rather  hamlet  of 
Lenington.  I  sought  the  village  church.  It  is  an  old  low  edi- 
fice of  gray  stone  on  the  brow  of  a  small  hill,  looking  over  fer- 
tile fields  to  where  the  proud  towers  of  Warwick  Castle  lifted 
themselves  against  the  distant  horizon.  A  part  of  the  church- 
yard is  shaded  by  large  trees.  Under  one  of  these  my  mother 
lay  buried.  You  have,  no  doubt,  thought  me  a  light,  heartless 
being.  I  thought  myself  so  —  but  there  are  moments  of 
adversity  which  let  us  into  some  feelings  of  our  nature,  to 
which  we  might  otherwise  remain  perpetual  strangers. 

I  sought  my  mother's  grave.  The  weeds  were  already  matted 
over  it,  and  the  tombstone  was  half  hid  among  nettles.  1 
cleared  them  away  and  they  stung  my  hands ;  but  I  was  heed- 
less of  the  pain,  for  my  heart  ached  too  severely.  I  sat  down 
on  the  grave,  and  read  over  and  over  again  the  epitaph  on  the 
stone.  It  was  simple,  but  it  was  true.  I  had  Avritten  it  myself. 
I  had  tried  to  write  a  poetical  epitaph,  but  in  vain ;  my  feelings 
refused  to  utter  themselves  in  rhyme.  My  heart  had  grad- 
ually been  filling  during  my  lonely  wanderings ;  it  was  now 
charged  to  the  brim  and  overflowed,  I  sank  upon  the  grave 
and  buried  my  face  in  the  tall  grass  and  wept  like  a  child. 
Yes,  I  wept  in  manhood  upon  V.  10  grave,  as  I  had  in  infancy 
upon  the  bosom  of  my  mother,  Alas !  how  little  do  we  appre- 
ciate a  mother's  tenderness  while  living !  How  heedless  are  we 
in  youth,  of  all  her  anxieties  and  kindness.  But  when  she  is 
dead  and  gone ;  when  the  cares  and  coldness  of  the  world  come 
withering  to  our  hearts ;  when  we  find  how  hard  it  is  to  find 
true  sympathy,  how  few  love  us  for  ourselves,  how  few  will 
befriend  us  in  our  misfortunes ;  then  it  is  we  think  of  the  moth- 
er we  have  lost.  It  is  true  I  had  always  loved  my  mother, 
even  in  my  most  heedless  days ;  but  I  felt  how  inconsiderate 
and  ineffectual  had  been  my  love.  My  heart  melted  as  I  retraced 
the  days  of  infancy,  when  I  was  led  by  a  mother's  hand  and 
rocked  to  sleep  in  a  mother's  arms,  and  was  without  care  or 
sorrow.  "Oh,  my  mother!"  exclaimed  I,  burying  my  face 
again  in  the  grass  of  the  grave—"  Oh,  that  I  were  once  more 
by  your  side ;  sleeping,  never  to  wake  again,  on  the  cares  and 
troubles  of  this  world !" 


GRAVE  REFLECTIONS  <>r  A    DISAPPOINTED  MAN.    187 

I  am  not  naturally  of  a  morbid  temperament,  and  the 

lence  of  my  emotion  gradually  exhausted  Itself.      It  was  o 

hearty,  honest,  natural  discharge  of  griefs  which  had  been 
slowly  accumulating,  and  gave  me  wonderful  relief.  I  rose 
from  the  grave  as  if  I  had  been  offering  up  a  sacrifice,  and  I 
felt  as  if  that  sacrifice  had  been  accepted. 

I  sat  down  again  on  the  grass,  and  plucked,  one  by  one.  the 
weeds  from  her  grave ;  the  tears  trickled  more  slowly  down  my 
cheeks,  and  ceased  to  be  bitter.  It  was  a  comfort  to  think  that 
she  had  died  before  sorrow  and  poveity  came  upon  her  child, 
and  that  all  Iris  great  expectations  were  blasted. 

I  leaned  my  cheek  upon  my  hand  and  looked  upon  the  land- 
scape. Its  quiet  beauty  soothed  me.  The  whistle  of  a  peasant 
from  an  adjoining  field  came  cheeruy  to  my  ear.  I  seemed  to 
respire  hope  and  comfort  with  the  free  air  that  whispered 
through  the  leaves  and  played  lightly  with  my  hair,  ami  dried 
the  tears  upon  my  cheek.  A  lark,  rising  from  the  field  before 
me.  and  leaving,  as  it  were,  a  stream  of  song  behind  him  as  he 
rose,  lifted  my  fancy  with  hini.  He  hovered  in  the  air  just 
above  the  place  where  the  towers  of  Warwick  Castle  marked 
the  horizon  ;  and  seemed  as  if  fluttering  with  delight  at  his  own 
melody.  "Surely,"  thought  I,  "if  there  were  such  a  thing  as 
transmigration  of  souls,  this  might  be  taken  for  some  poet,  let 
loose  from  earth,  but  still  revelling  in  song,  and  carolling  about 
fair  fields  and  lordly  towns." 

At  this  moment  the  long  forgotten  feeling  of  poetry  rose 
within  me.  A  thought  Sprung  at  once  into  my  mind:  "  I  will 
become  an  author, "  said  I.  "  I  h?  ve  hitherto  indulged  in  poetry 
as  a  pie;. sure,  and  it  has  brought  me  nothing  but  pain.  Let  me 
try  what  it  will  do,  when  I  cultivate  it  with  devotion  as  a 
pursuit." 

The  resolution,  thus  suddenly  aroused  within  me,  heaved  a 
load  from  off  my  heart.  I  felt  a  confidence  in  it  from  the  very 
place  where  11  was  formed.  It  seemed  as  though  my  mothers 
Spirit  whispered  it  to  me  from  her  grave.  "  I  will  henceforth.' 
said  I.  "  endeavor  to  be  all  that  she  fondly  imagined  me.  I  will 
endeavor  to  act  as  if  she  were  witness  of  my  actions.  I  will 
endeavor  to  acquit  myself  in  such  manner,  that  when  I  revisit 
her  grave  there  may.  at  least,  be  no  compunctious  bitten1, 
my  1 1 

I  bowed  down  and  kissed  the  turf  in  solemn  attestati 
my  vow.  I  plucked  some  primroses  that  were  growing  I 
and  laid  them  next  my  heart.     1  left  the  church-yard  with  my 


138  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

spirits  once  more  lifted  up,  and  set  out  a  third  time  for  London, 
in  the  character  of  an  author. 

Here  my  companion  made  a  pause,  and  I  waited  in  anxious 
suspense;  hoping  to  have  a  whole  volume  of  literary  life  unfold- 
ed to  me.  He  seemed,  however,  to  have  sunk  into  a  fit  of  pen- 
sive musing;  and  when  after  some  time  I  gently  roused  him 
by  a  question  or  two  as  to  his  literary  career.  "  No,"  said  he 
miling,  "over  that  part  of  my  story  I  wish  to  leave  a  cloud. 
Let  the  mysteries  of  the  craft  rest  sacred  for  me.  Let  those 
who  have  never  adventured  into  the  republic  of  letters,  still 
look  upon  it  as  a  fairy  land.  Let  them  suppose  the  author  the 
very  being  they  picture  him  from  his  works;  I  am  not  the  man 
to  mar  their  illusion.  I  am  not  the  man  to  hint,  while  one  is 
admiring  the  silken  web  of  Persia,  that  it  has  been  spun  from 
the  entrails  of  a  miserable  worm  " 

11  Well,"  said  I,  "if  you  will  tell  me  nothing  of  your  literary 
history,  let  me  know  at  least  if  you  have  had  any  farther  intel- 
ligence from  Doubting  Castle." 

"Willingly,"  replied  he,  "though  I  have  but  little  to  com- 
municate." 


THE  BOOBY  SQUIRE. 

A  LONG  time  elapsed,  said  Buckthorne,  without  my  receiving 
any  accounts  of  my  cousin  and  Ins  estate.  Indeed,  I  felt  so 
much  soreness  on  the  subject,  thar  I  wished,  if  possible,  to  shut 
it  from  my  thoughts.  At  length  chance  took  me  into  that  part 
of  the  country,  and  I  could  not  refrain  from  making  some 
inquiries. 

I  learnt  that  my  cousin  had  grown  up  ignorant,  self-willed, 
and  clownish.  His  ignorance  and  clownishness  had  prevented 
his  mingling  with  the  neighboring  gentry.  In  spite  of  his  great 
fortune  he  had  been  unsuccessful  in  an  attempt  to  gain  the 
hand  of  the  daughter  of  the  parson,  and  had  at  length  shrunk 
into  the  limits  of  such  society  as  a  mere  man  of  wealth  can 
gather  in  a  country  neighborhood. 

He  kept  horses  and  hounds  and  a  roaring  table,  at  which 
were  collected  the  loose  livers  of  the  country  round,  and  the 
shabby  gentlemen  of  a  village  in  the  vicinity.  When  he  could 
get  no  other  company  he  would  smoke  and  drink  with  his  own 


THE  BOOBT  SQUIRE,  139 

Servants,  who  in  their  turns  fleeced  and  despised  him.  Still, 
with  all  tin's  apparent  prodigality,  he  had  a  leaven  of  the  old 
man  in  him,  which  showed  that  he  was  his  true-born  son.  He 
He  lived  far  within  his  income,  was  vulgar  in  his  expenses,  and 
penurious  on  many  points  on  which  a  gentleman  would  be 
extravagant.  His  house  servants  were  obliged  occasionally  to 
work  on  the  estate,  and  part  of  the  pleasure  grounds  were 
ploughed  up  and  devoted  to  husbandry. 

His  table,  though  plentiful,  wTas  coarse;  his  liquors  strong 
and  bad ;  and  more  ale  and  whiskey  were  expended  in  his  es- 
tablishment than  generous  wine.  He  was  loud  and  arrogant 
at  his  own  table,  and  exacted  a  rich  man's  homage  from  his 
vulgar  and  obsequious  guests. 

As  to  Iron  John,  his  old  grandfather,  he  had  grown  impatient 
of  the  tight  hand  his  own  grandson  kept  over  him,  and  quar- 
relled with  him  soon  after  he  came  to  the  estate.  The  old  man 
had  retired  to  a  neighboring  village  where  he  lived  on  the  leg- 
acy of  his  late  master,  in  a  small  cottage,  and  was  as  seldom 
seen  out  of  it  as  a  rat  out  of  his  hole  in  daylight. 

The  cub,  like  Caliban,  seemed  to  have  an  instinctive  attach- 
ment to  his  mother.  She  resided  ivith  him;  but,  from  long 
habit,  she  acted  more  as  servant  than  as  mistress  of  the  mansion ; 
for  she  toiled  in  all  the  domestic  drudgery,  and  was  oftener 
in  the  kitchen  than  the  parlor.  Such  was  the  information 
which  I  collected  of  my  rival  cousin,  who  had  so  unexpectedly 
elbowed  me  out  of  all  my  expectations. 

I  now  felt  an  irresistible  hankering  to  pay  a  visit  to  this 
scene  of  my  boyhood ;  and  to  get  a  peep  at  the  odd  kind  of  life 
that  was  passing  within  the  mansion  of  my  maternal  ancestors. 
I  determined  to  do  so  in  disguise.  My  booby  cousin  had  never 
seen  enough  of  me  to  be  very  familiar  with  my  countenance, 
and  a  few  years  make  great  difference  between  youth  and  man- 
hood. I  understood  he  was  a  breeder  of  cattle  and  proud  of  his 
stock.  I  dressed  myself,  therefore,  as  a  substantial  farmer, 
and  with  the  assistance  of  a  red  scratch  that  came  low  down  on 
my  forehead,  made  a  complete  change  in  my  physiognomy. 

It  was  past  three  o'clock  when  I  arrived  at  the  gate  of  the 
park,  and  was  admitted  by  an  old  woman,  who  was  washing  in 
a  dilapidated  building  which  had  once  been  a  porter's  lodge. 
I  advanced  up  the  remains  of  a  noble  avenue,  many  of  the  trees 
of  which  had  been  cut  down  and  sold  for  timber.  The  grounds 
were  in  scarcely  better  keeping  than  during  my  uncle's  lifetime. 
The  grass  was  overgrown  with  weeds,  and  the  trees  wanted 


140  TALES  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

pruning  and  clearing  of  dead  branches.  Cattle  were  grazing 
about  the  lawns,  and  ducks  and  geese  swimming  in  the  fish- 
ponds. 

The  road  to  the  house*  bore  very  few  traces  of  carriage 
wheels,  as  my  cousin  received  few  visitors  but  such  as  came  on 
foot  or  on  horseback,  and  never  used  a  carriage  himself.  Once, 
indeed,  as  I  was  told,  lie  had  had  the  old  family  carriage 
drawn  out  from  among  the  dust  and  cobwebs  of  the  coaoh- 
!  .u'ise  and  furbished  up,  and  had  drove,  with  his  mother,  to 
the  village  church  to  take  formal  possession  of  the  family 
pew;  but  there  was  such  hooting  and  laughing  after  them  as 
they  passed  through  the  a  illage.  and  such  giggling  and  banter- 
ing about  the  church  door,  that  the  pageant  had  never  made  a 
reappearance. 

As  I  approached  the  house,  a  legion  of  whelps  sallied  out 
barking  at  me,  accompanied  by  the  low  howling,  rather  than 
barking,  of  two  old  worn-out  bloodhounds,  which  I  recognized 
for  the  ancient  life-guards  of  my  uncle.  The  house  had  still  a 
neglected,  random  appearance,  though  much  altered  for  the 
better  since  my  last  visit.  Several  of  the  windows  were  broken 
and  patched  up  with  boards ;  and  others  had  been  bricked  up 
to  save  taxes.  I  observed  smoke,  however,  rising  from  the 
chimneys;  a  phenomenon  rarely  witnessed  in  the  ancient  es- 
tablishment- On  passing  that  part  of  the  house  where  the 
.lining-room  was  situated,  I  heard  the  sound  of  boisterous 
merriment ;  where  three  or  four  voices  were  talking  at  once, 
and  oaths  and  laughter  were  horribly  mingled. 

The  uproar  of  the  dogs  had  brought  a  servant  to  the  door,  a 
tall,  hard-fisted  country  clown,  with  a  livery  coat  put  over  the 
under-garments  of  a  ploughman.  I  requested  to  see  the  master 
of  the  house,  but  was  told  he  was  at  dinner  with  some  i '  gem- 
men"  of  the  neighborhood.  I  made  known  my  business  and 
sent  in  to  know  if  I  might  talk  with  the  master  about  his 
cattle;  fori  felt  a  great  desire  to  have  a  peep  at  him  at  his 
u-gies.  Word  was  returned  that  he  was  engaged  with  com- 
pany, and  could  not  attend  to  business,  but  that  if  I  would 
' '  step  in  and  take  a  drink  of  something,  I  was  heartily  wel- 
come." I  accordingly  entered  the  hall,  where  whips  and  hats 
of  all  kinds  and  shapes  were  lying  on  an  oaken  table,  two  or 
three  clownish  servants  were  lounging  about ;  everything  had 
a  look  of  confusion  and  carelessness. 

The  apartments  through  which  I  passed  had  the  same  air  of 
departed  gentility  and  sluttish  housekeeping.    The  once  rich 


HIE  Boom   SQt  //. 

curtail**  were  faded  and  dusty;  the  f u-niture  greased  and  tai 
nished.     On  entering  the  dining-room  I  found  a  number  of  odd. 
vulgar-looking,   rustic    gentlemen  seated    round  a  tab! 
winch  wore  bottles,  decanters,  tankards,  pipes,  and  tob, 
■  \\\  dogs  were  lying  about  the  room,  or  sitting  and  wi 
ing  their  masters,  and  one  was  gnawing  a  bone  under  a  side 
table. 

The  master  of  the  feast  sat  at  the  head  of  the  board.  He  was 
greatly  altered.  He  had  grown  thick-set  and  rather  gummy, 
with  a  fiery,  foxy  head  of  hair.  There  was  a  singular  mixture  <  >f 
foolishness,  arrogance,  and  conceit  in  his  countenance.  He 
was  dressed  in  a  vulgarly  fine  style,  with  leather  breeches,  a 
red  waistcoat,  and  green  coat,  and  was  evidently,  like  his 
guests,  a  little  flushed  with  drinking.  The  whole  company 
stared  at  me  with  a  whimsical  muggy  look,  like  men  whose 
senses  were  a  little  obfuscated  by  beer  rather  than  wine. 

My  cousin,  (God  forgive  me!  the  appellation  sticks  in  my 
throat,)  my  cousin  invited  me  with  awkward  civility,  or,  as 
he  intended  it,  condescension,  to  sit  to  the  table  and  drink. 
We  talked,  as  usual,  about  the  weather,  the  crops,  politics,  and 
hard  times.  My  cousin  was  a  loud  politician,  and  evidently 
accustomed  to  talk  without  contradiction  at  his  own  table.  He 
was  amazingly  loyal,  and  talked  of  standing  by  the  throne  to 
the  last  guinea,  "as  every  gentleman  of  fortune  should  do." 
The  village  exciseman,  who  was  half  asleep,  could  just  ejacu- 
late, "very  true,''  to  every  thing  he  said. 

The  conversation  turned  upon  cattle ;  he  boasted  of  his  breed, 
his  mode  of  managing  it,  and  of  the  general  management  of 
his  estate.  This  unluckily  drew  on  a  history  of  the  place  and 
of  the  family.  He  spoke  of  my  late  uncle  with  the  greatest 
irreverence,  which  I  could  easily  forgive.  He  mentioned  my 
name,  and  my  blood  began  to  boil.  He  described  my  frequent 
visits  to  my  uncle  when  I  was  a  lad,  and  I  found  the  varlet. 
even  at  that  time,  imp  as  he  was,  had  kn<wn  that  he  was  t<> 
inherit  the  est 

He  described  the  scene  of  my  uncle's  death,  and  the  opening 
of  the  will,  with  a  degree  of  coarse  humor  that  I  had  not  ex  ( 
from  him,  and,  vexed  as  I  was,  I  could  not  help  joining  in 
the  laugh,  for  I  have  always  relished  a  joke,  even  though  made 
at  my  own  expense.  He  went  on  to  speak  of  my  various  pur- 
suits; my  strolling  freak,  and  that  somewhat  nettled  me.  At 
length  he  talked  of  my  parents.  He  ridiculed  my  Father:  i 
stomached  even  that,  though  with  great  difficulty.     He  men- 


j42  A    thai 

tioned  my  mother  with  a  sneer—and  in  an  instant  he  laj 
sprawling  at  my  feet. 

Here  a  scene  of  tumult  succeeded.  The  table  was  nearly 
overturned.  Bottles,  glasses,  and  tankards,  rolled  crashing 
and  clattering  about  the  floor.  The  company  seized  hold  of 
both  of  us  to  keep  us  from  doing  farther  mischief.  I  struggled 
to  get  loose,  for  I  was  boiling  with  fury.  My  cousin  defied  mc 
to  strip  and  fight  him  on  the  lawn.  I  agreed;  for  I  felt  tli; 
strength  of  a  giant  in  me,  and  I  longed  to  pummel  him  soundly. 

Away  then  we  were  borne.  A  ring  was  formed.  I  had  a 
second  assigned  me  in  true  boxing  style.  My  cousin,  as  he 
advanced  to  fight,  said  something  about  his  generosity  in 
showing  me  such  fair  play,  when  I  had  made  such  an  unpro- 
voked attack  upon  him  at  his  own  table. 

''Stop  there  !"  cried  I,  in  a  rage — ''unprovoked!— know  that 
I  am  John  Buckthorne,  and  you  have  insidted  the  memory  of 
my  mother.'* 

The  lout  was  suddenly  struck  by  what  I  said.  He  drew  back 
and  reflected  for  a  moment. 

••  Nay,  danm  it."  said  he,  "  that's  too  much— that's  clear  an- 
other thing.  I've  a  mother  myself,  and  no  one  shall  speak  ill 
of  her,  bad  as  she  is." 

He  paused  again.  Nature  seemed  to  have  a  rough  struggle  in 
his  rude  bosom. 

'Damn  it,  cousin, ''  cried  he,  "I'm  sorry  for  what  I  said. 
Thou'st  served  me  right  in  knocking  me  down,  and  I  like  thee 
the  better  for  it.  Here's  my  hand.  Come  and  live  with  me. 
and  damme  but  the  best  room  in  the  house,  and  the  best  horse 
in  the  stable,  shall  be  at  thy  service." 

I  declare  to  you  I  was  strongly  moved  at  this  instance  of  na- 
ture breaking  her  way  through  such  a  lump  of  flesh.  I  forgav 
the  fellow  in  a  moment  all  his  crimes  of  having  been  born  in 
wedlock  and  inheriting  my  estate.  I  shook  the  hand  he  offered 
me,  to  convince  him  that  I  bore  him  no  ill  will;  and  then 
making  my  way  through  the  gaping  crowd  of  toad-eaters,  bade 
adieu  to  my  uncle's  domains  forever.  This  is  the  last  I  have 
seen  or  heard  of  my  cousin,  or  of  the  domestic  concerns  of 
Doubting  Castle. 


THE  STROLLING  MANAGER  143 


THE  STROLLING  MANAGER. 

As  I  was  walking  one  morning  with  Buckthorne,  near  one  of 
the  principal  theaters,  he  directed  my  attention  to  a  group  of 
those  equivocal  beings  that  may  often  be  seen  hovering  about 
the  stage-doors  of  theaters.  They  were  marvellously  ill- 
favored  in  their  attire,  their  coats  buttoned  up  to  their  chins ; 
yet  they  wore  their  hats  smartly  on  one  side,  and  had  a  certain 
knowing,  dirty-gentlemanlike  air,  which  is  common  to  the 
subalterns  of  the  drama.  Buckthorne  knew  them  well  by 
early  experience. 

These,  said  he,  are  the  ghosts  of  departed  kings  and  heroes ; 
fellows  who  sway  sceptres  and  truncheons ;  command  kingdoms 
and  armies ;  and  after  giving  way  realms  and  treasures  over 
night,  have  scarce  a  shilling  to  pay  for  a  breakfast  in  the  morn- 
ing. Yet  they  have  the  true  vagabond  abhorrence  of  all  useful 
and  industrious  employment ;  and  they  have  their  pleasures 
too :  one  of  which  is  to  lounge  in  this  way  in  the  sunshine,  at 
the  stage-door,  during  rehearsals,  and  make  hackneyed  theatrical 
jokes  on  all  passers-by. 

Nothing  is  more  traditional  and  legitimate  than  the  stage. 
Old  scenery,  old  clothes,  old  sentiments,  old  ranting,  and  old 
jokes,  are  handed  down  from  generation  to  generation;  and 
will  probably  continue  to  be  so,  until  time  shall  be  no  more. 
Every  hanger-on  of  a  theater  becomes  a  wag  by  inheritance, 
and  flourishes  about  at  tap-rooms  and  six-penny  clubs,  with 
the  property  jokes  of  the  green-room. 

While  amusing  ourselves  with  reconnoitring  this  group,  we 
noticed  one  in  particular  who  appeared  to  be  the  oracle.  He 
was  a  weather-beaten  veteran,  a  little  bronzed  by  time  and 
beer,  who  had  no  doubt,  grown  gray  in  the  parts  of  robbers, 
cardinals,  Roman  senators,  and  walking  noblemen. 

"There's  something  in  the  set  of  that  hat,  and  the  turn  of 
that  physiognomy,  that  is  extremely  familiar  to  me,"  said  Buck- 
thorne. He  looked  a  little  closer.  "I  cannot  be  mistaken," 
added  he,  "that  must  be  my  old  brother  of  the  truncheon. 
Flimsey,  the  tragic  hero  of  the  strolling  company 

It  was  he  in  fact.  The  poor  fellow  showed  evident  signs  that 
times  went  hard  with  him ;  he  was  so  finely  and  shabbily 
dressed.  His  coat  was  somewhat  threadbare,  and  of  the  Lord 
Townly  out:  single-breasted,  and  scarcely  capable  of  meeting 


j 44  TALKS  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

in  front  of  his  body;  which,  from  long  intimacy,  had  acquired 
the  symmetry  and  robustness  of  a  beer-barrel.  He  wore  a  pair 
of  dingy  white  stockinet  pantaloons,  which  had  much  ado  to 
reach  his  waistcoat;  a  great  quantity  of  dirty  cravat;  and  a 
pair  of  old  russet-colored  tragedy  boots. 

When  his  companions  had  dispersed,  Buckthorne  drew  him 
aside  and  made  himself  known  to  him.  The  tragic  veteran 
could  scarcely  recognize  him,  or  believe  that  he  was  really  his 
quondam  associate  "little  gentleman  Jack."  Buckthorne  in- 
vited him  to  a  neighboring  coffee-house  to  talk  over  old  times ; 
and  in  the  course  of  a  little  while  we  were  put  in  possession  of 
his  history  in  brief. 

He  had  continued  to  act  the  heroes  in  the  strolling  company 
for  sonu>  time  after  Buckthorne  had  left  it,  or  rather  had  been 
driven  from  it  so  abruptly.  At  length  the  manager  died,  and  the 
troop  was  thrown  into  confusion.  Every  one  aspired  to  the 
crown;  every  one  was  for  taking  the  lead;  and  the  manager's 
widow,  although  a  tragedy  queen,  and  a  brimstone  to  boot, 
pronounced  it  utterly  impossible  to  keep  any  control  over  such 
a  set  of  tempestuous  rascallions. 

Upon  this  hint  I  spoke,  said  Flimsey— I  stepped  forward,  and 
offered  my  services  in  the  most  effectual  way.  They  were  ac- 
cepted. In  a  week's  time  I  married  the  widow  and  succeeded 
to  the  throne.  "The  funeral  baked  meats  did  coldly  furnish 
forth  the  marriage  table,"  as  Hamlet  says.  But  the  ghost  of 
my  predecessor  never  haunted  me;  and  I  inherited  crowns, 
sceptres,  bowls,  daggers,  and  all  the  stage  trappings  and  trum- 
pery, not  omitting  the  widow,  without  the  least  molestation. 

I  now  led  a  nourishing  life  of  it ;  for  our  company  was  pretty 
strong  and  attractive,  and  as  my  wife  and  I  took  the  heavy 
parts  of  tragedy,  it  was  a  great  saving  to  the  treasury.  We 
carried  off  the  palm  from  all  the  rival  shows  at  country  fairs; 
and  I  assure  you  we  have  even  drawn  full  houses,  and  being 
applauded  by  the  critics  at  Bartlemy  fair  itself,  though  we  had 
Astley's  troupe,  the  Irish  giant,  and  "  the  death  of  Nelson'1  in 
wax-work  to  contend  against. 

I  soon  began  to  experience,  however,  the  cares  of  command. 
I  discovered  that  there  were  cabals  breaking  out  in  the  com- 
pany, headed  by  the  clown,  wno  you  may  recollect  was  a  terri- 
bly peevish,  fractious  fellow,  and  always  in  ill-humor.  I  had  a 
,  great  mind  to  turn  him  off  at  once,  but  I  could  not  do  without 
him,  for  there  was  not  a  droller  scoundrel  on  the  stage.  His 
very  shape  wTas  comic,  for  he  had  to  turn  his  back  upon  the 


THE  8TRQLLI&Q    MANAGER  145 

audience  and  all  the  ladies  were  ready  to  die  with  laughing. 
He  felt  his  importance,  and  took  advantage  of  it.  He  would 
keep  the  audience  in  a  continual  roar,  and  then  come  behind 
the  scenes  and  fret  and  fume  and  play  the  very  devil.  I  ex- 
cused a  groat  deal  In  him,  however,  knowing  that  cjmic  actors 
are  a  little  prone  to  this  infirmity  of  temper. 

I  had  another  trouble  of  a  nearer  and  dearer  nature  to  strug- 
gle with;  which  was,  the  alfection  of  my  wife.  As  ill  luck 
would  have  it,  she  took  it  into  her  head  to  be  very  fond  of  me, 
and  became  intolerably  jealous.  I  could  not  keep  a  pretty  girl 
in  the  company,  and  hardly  dared  embrace  an  ugly  one,  even 
when  my  part  required  it.  I  have  known  her  to  reduce  a  line 
lady  to  tatters,  "to  very  rags,"  as  Hamlet  says,  in  an  instant, 
and  destroy  one  of  the  very  best  dresses  in  the  wardrobe; 
merely  because  she  saw  me  kiss  her  at  the  side  scenes ;— though 
I  give  you  my  honor  it  was  done  merely  by  way  of  rehearsal. 

This  Avas  doubly  annoying,  because  I  have  a  natural  liking 
to  pretty  faces,  and  wish  to  have  them  about  me ;  and  because 
they  are  indispensable  to  the  success  of  a  company  at  a  fair, 
where  one  has  to  vie  with  so  many  rival  theatres.  But  when 
once  a  jealous  wife  gets  a  freak  in  her  head  there's  no  use  in 
talking  of  interest  or  anything  else.  Egad,  sirs,  I  have  more 
than  once  trembled  when,  during  a  lit  of  her  tantrums,  she  was 
playing  high  tragedy,  and  flourishing  her  tin  dagger  on  the 
stage,  lest  she  should  give  way  to  her  humor,  and  stab  some 
fancied  rival  in  good  earnest. 

I  went  on  better,  however,  than  could  be  expected,  consider- 
ing the  weakness  of  my  flesh  and  the  violence  of  my  rib.  I 
had  not  a  much  worse  time  of  it  than  old  Jupiter,  whose  spouse 
was  continually  ferreting  out  some  new  intrigue  and  making 
the  heavens  almost  too  hot  to  hold  him. 

At  length,  as  luck  would  have  it,  we  were  performing  at  a 
country  fair,  when  I  understood  the  theatre  of  a  neighboring 
town  to  be  vacant.  I  had  always  been  desirous  to  be  enrolled 
in  a  settled  company,  and  the  height  of  my  desire  was  i 
on  a  par  with  a  brother-in-law.  who  was  manager  of  a  regular 
theatre,  and  who  had  looked  down  upon  me.  Here  w, 
Opportunity  not  to  be  neglected.  I  concluded  an  agreement 
with  the  proprietors,  and  in  a  few  days  opened  the  theatre  with 
great  eclat. 

Behold  me  now  at  the  summit  of  my  ambition,  "the  high 
topgallant  of  my  joy,"  as  Thoma*  says.  No  longer  ft  chieftain 
of  a  wandering  tribe,  but  the  monarch  of  a  legitimate  throne  - 


146  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

and  entitled  to  call  even  the  great  potentates  of  Covent  Garden 
and  Drury  Lane  cousin. 

You  no  doubt  think  my  happiness  complete.  Alas,  sir !  1 
was  one  of  the  most  uncomfortable  dogs  living.  No  one 
knows,  who  has  not  tried,  the  miseries  of  a  manager;  but 
above  all,  of  a  country  management— no  one  can  conceive  the 
contentions  and  quarrels  within  doors,  the  oppressions  and 
vexations  from  without. 

I  was  pestered  with  the  bloods  and  loungers  of  a  country 
town,  who  infested  my  green-room,  and  played  the  mischief 
among  my  actresses.  But  there  was  no  shaking  them  off.  It 
would  have  been  ruin  to  affront  them;  for,  though  troublesome 
friends,  they  would  have  been  dangerous  enemies.  Then  there 
were  the  village  critics  and  village  amateurs,  who  were  con- 
tinually tormenting  me  with  advice,  and  getting  into  a  passion 
if  I  would  not  take  it :— especially  the  village  doctor  and  the 
village  attorney ;  who  had  both  been  to  London  occasionally, 
and  knew  what  acting  should  be. 

I  had  also  to  manage  as  arrant  a  crew  of  scapegraces  as  were 
ever  collected  together  within  the  walls  of  a  theatre.  I  had 
been  obliged  to  combine  my  original  troupe  with  some  of  the 
former  troupe  of  the  theatre,  who  were  favorites  with  the  pub- 
lic. Here  was  a  mixture  that  produced  perpetual  ferment. 
They  were  all  the  time  either  fighting  or  frolicking  with  each 
other,  and  I  scarcely  knew  which  mood  was  least  troublesome. 
If  they  quarrelled,  everything  went  wrong;  and  if  they  were 
friends,  they  were  continually  playing  off  some  confounded 
prank  upon  each  other,  or  upon  me;  for  I  had  unhappily 
acquired  among  them  the  character  of  an  easy,  good  natured 
fellow,  the  worst  character  that  a  manager  can  possess. 

Their  waggery  at  times  drove  me  almost  crazy ;  for  there  is 
nothing  so  vexatious  as  the  hackneyed  tricks  and  hoaxes  and 
pleasantries  of  a  veteran  band  of  theatrical  vagabonds.  I 
relished  them  well  enough,  it  is  true,  while  I  was  merely  one 
of  the  company,  but  as  manager  I  found  them  detestable. 
They  were  incessantly  bringing  some  disgrace  upon  the  theatre 
by  their  tavern  forlics,  and  their  pranks  about  the  country 
town.  All  my  lectures  upon  the  importance  of  keeping  up  the 
dignity  of  the  profession,  and  the  respectability  of  the  com- 
pany were  in  vain.  The  villians  could  not  sympathize  with 
the  delicate  feelings  of  a  man  in  station.  They  even  trifled 
with  the  seriousness  of  stage  business.  I  have  had  the  whole 
piece  interrupted,  and  a  croweded  audience  of  at  least  twenty 


UE  STROLLU 

live  |  epl  waiting,  because  the  actors  had  hid  away  the 

breeches  of  Rosalind,  and  have  known  Hamlet  stalk  solemnly 
on  to  deliver  his  soliloquy,  with  a  dish-clout  pinned  to  his 
skirts.  Such  are  the  baleful  consequences  of  a  manager's  get- 
ting a  character  for  good  nature. 

I  was  intolerably  annoyed,  too,  by  the  great  actors  who 
came  down  starring,  as  it  is  called,  from  London.  Of  all  bane- 
ful influences,  keep  me  from  that  of  a  London  star.  A  first- 
rate  actress  going  the  rounds  of  the  country  theatres,  is  as  bad 
as  a  blazing  comet,  whisking  about  the  heavens,  and  shaking 
fire,  and  plagues,  and  discords  from  its  tail. 

The  moment  one  of  these  ''heavenly  bodies*'  appeared  on  my 
horizon,  I  was  sure  to  be  in  hot  water.  My  theatre  was  over- 
run by  provincial  dandies,  copper-washed  counterfeits  of  Bond 
street  loungers ;  who  are  always  proud  to  be  in  the  train  of  an 
actress  from  town,  and  anxious  to  be  thought  on  exceeding 
good  terms  with  her.  It  was  really  a  relief  to  me  when  some 
random  young  nobleman  would  come  in  pursuit  of  the  bait,  and 
awe  all  this  small  fry  to  a  distance.  I  have  always  felt  myself 
more  at  ease  with  a  nobleman  than  with  the  dandy  of  a  coun- 
try town. 

And  then  the  injuries  I  suffered  in  my  personal  dignity  and 
my  manageral  authority  from  the  visits  of  these  great  Lond«  m 
actors.  Sir,  I  was  no  longer  master  of  myself  or  my  throne. 
I  was  hectored  and  lectured  in  my  own  green-room,  and  made 
an  absolute  nincompoop  on  my  own  stage.  There  is  no  tyrant 
so  absolute  and  capricious  as  a  London  star  at  a  country 
theatre. 

I  dreaded  the  sight  of  all  of  them;  and  yet  if  I  did  not 
engage  them,  I  was  sure  of  having  the  public  clamorous  against 
me.  They  drew  full  houses,  and  appeared  to  be  making  my 
fortune;  but  they  swallowed  up  all  the  profits  by  their  insatia- 
ble demands.  They  were  absolute  tape-worms  to  my  little 
theatre;  the  more  it  took  in,  the  poorer  it  grew.  They  were 
sure  to  leave  me  with  an  exhausted  public,  empty  benches,  and 
a  score  or  two  of  affronts  to  settle  among  she  townsfolk,  in 
consequence  of  misunderstandings  about  the  taking  of  places. 

But  the  worst  thing  I  had  to  undergo  in  my  managerial 
career  was  patronage.  Oh,  sir,  of  all  things  deliver  me  from 
the  patronage  of  the  great  people  of  a  country  town.  It  was 
my  ruin.  You  must  know  that  this  town,  though  small,  was 
filled  with  feuds,  and  parties,  and  great  folks;  being  a  busy 
little  trading-  and  manufacturing  town.     The  mischief  was, 


148  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

that  their  greatness  was  of  a  kind  not  to  be  settled  by  reference 
to  the  court  calendar,  or  college  of  heraldry.  It  was  therefore 
the  most  quarrelsome  kind  of  greatness  in  existence.  You 
smile,  sir,  but  let  me  tell  you  there  are  no  feuds  more  furious 
than  the  frontier  feuds,  which  take  place  on  these  "debatabk 
lands  "  of  gentility.  The  most  violent  dispute  that  I  ever  knew 
pi  high  life,  was  one  that  occurred  at  a  country  town,  on  a 
Lon  of  precedence  between  the  ladies  of  a  manufacturer  of 
pins  and  a  manufacturer  of  needles. 

At  the  town  where  I  was  situated  there  were  perpetual  alter- 
cations of  the  kind.  The  head  manufacturer's  lady,  fo? 
install  -  at  daggers  dv  head  shopkeeper's, 

and  both  were  too  rich  and  had  too  many  friends  to  be  treated 
lightly.  The  doctor's  and  lawyer's  ladies  held  their  heads  still 
higher ;  but  they  in  their  turn  were  kept  in  check  by  the  wife 
of  a  country  banker,  who  kept  her  own  carriage;  while  a  mas- 
culine widow  of  cracked  character,  and  second-hand  fashion, 
who  lived  in  a  large  house,  and  was  in  some  way  related  to 
nobility,  looked  down  upon  them  all.  She  had  been  exiled 
from  the  great  world,  but  here  she  ruled  absolute.  To  be  sure 
her  manners  were  not  over-elegant,  nor  her  fortune  over-large ; 
but  then,  sir,  her  blood— oh,  her  blood  carried  it  all  hollow, 
there  was  no  withstanding  a  woman  with  such  blood  in  her 
veins. 

After  all,  she  had  frequent  battles  for  precedence  at  balls  and 
assemblies,  with  some  of  the  sturdy  dames  of  the  neighbor- 
hood, who  stood  upon  their. wealth  and  their  reputations;  but 
then  she  had  two  dashing  daughters,  who  dressed  as  fine  as 
dragons,  and  had  as  high  blood  as  their  mother,  and  seconded 
her  in  everything.  So  they  carried  their  point  with  high  heads. 
and  every  body  hated,  abused,  and  stood  in  awe  of  the  Fan- 
tadlins. 

Such  was  the  state  of  the  fashionable  world  in  this  self-im- 
portant little  town.  Unluckily  I  was  not  as  well  aquainted 
with  its  politics  as  I  should  have  been.  I  had  found  myself  a 
stranger  and  in  great  perplexities  during  my  first  season;  I 
determined,  therefore,  to  put  myself  under  the  patronage  of 
some  powerful  name,  and  thus  to  take  the  field  with  the  pre- 
judices of  the  public  in  my  favor.  I  cast  round  my  thoughts 
for  the  purpose,  and  in  an  evil  hour  they  fell  upon  Mrs.  Fan-' 
tadiin.  No  one  seemed  to  me  to  have  a  more  absolute  sway  in 
the  world  of  fashion.  I  had  always  noticed  that  her  party 
slammed  the  box  door  the  loudest  at  the  theatre;  had  most 


TllE  $T%QILINQ    MANAGER 

beai-x  attending;  on  them;  ana  talked  and  laughed  loudest 
during  the  performance;  and  then  the  Miss  Fantadlins  \ 
always  more  feathers  and  flowers  than  any  other  ladies ;  and 
used  quizzing  glasses  incessantly.  The  first  evening  of  my 
theatre's  reopening,  therefore,  was  announced  in  flaring  capi- 
tals on  the  play  bills,  "under  the  patronage  of  the  Honorable 
Mrs.  Fantadlin.'' 

Sir,  the  whole  community  flew  to  arms !  The  banker's  wife 
felt  her  dignity  grievously  insulted  at  not  having  the  preference ; 
her  husband  being  high  bailiff,  and  the  richest  man  in  the 
place.  She  immediately  issued  invitations  for  a  large  part}', 
for  the  night  of  the  performance,  and  asked  many  a  lady  to  it 
whom  she  never  had  noticed  before.  The  fashionable  world 
had  long  groaned  under  the  tyranny  of  the  Fantadlins,  and 
were  glad  to  make  a  common  cause  against  this  new  instance 
of  assumption. — Presume  to  patronize  the  theatre !  insufferable ! 
Those,  too,  who  had  never  before  been  noticf  d  by  the  banker's 
lady,  were  ready  to  enlist  in  any  quarrel,  for  the  honor  of  her 
acquaintance.  All  minor  feuds  were  therefore  forgotten.  The 
doctors  lady  and  the  lawyer's  lady  met  together;  and  the 
manufacturer's  lady  and  the  shopkeeper's  lady  kissed  each 
other,  and  all,  headed  by  the  banker's  lady,  voted  the  theatre 
a  bore,  and  determined  to  encourage  nothing  but  the  Indian 
Jugglers,  and  Mr.  Walker's  Eidonianeon. 

Alas  for  poor  Pillgarlick !  I  little  knew  the  mischief  that 
was  brewing  against  me.  My  box  book  remained  blank.  The 
evening  arrived,  but  no  audience.  The  music  struck  up  to  a 
tolerable  pit  and  gallery,  but  no  fashionables!  I  peeped 
anxiously  from  behind  the  curtain,  but  the  time  passed  away: 
the  play  was  retarded  until  pit  and  gallery  became  furious; 
and  I  haq.  to  raise  the  curtain,  and  play  my  greatest  part  in 
tragedy  to  •  -  a  beggarly  account  of  empty  boxes. " 

It  is  time  the  Fantadlins  came  late,  as  was  their  custom,  and 
entered  Uke  a  tempest,  with  a  flutter  of  feathers  and  red  shawls ; 
but  they  were  evidently  disconcerted  at  finding  they  had  no 
one  to  admire  and  envy  them,  and  ware  enraged  at  this  glaring 
defection  of  their  fashionable  followers.  All  the  beau-monde 
were  engaged  at  the  banker's  lady's  rout.  They  remained  for 
some  time  in  solitary  and  uncomfortable  state,  and  though  they 
had  the  theatre  almost  to  themselves,  yet,  for  the  first  time, 
they  talked  in  whispers.  They  left  the  house  at  the  end  of  the 
first  piece,  and  I  never  saw  them  after wards. 

Such  was  the  rock  on  which  I  split.     I  never  got  over  the 


150  TA1  A    TRAVEL1 

patronage  of  the  Fantadlin  family.  It  became  the  Vogue  to 
abuse  the  theatre  and  declare  the  performers  shocking.  An 
equestrian  troupe  opened  a  circus  in  the  town  about  the  same 
time,  and  rose  on  my  ruins.  My  house  was  deserted;  my 
actors  grew  discontented  because  they  were  ill  paid;  my  door 
became  a  hammering-place  for  every  bailiff  in  the  county ;  and 
my  wife  became  more  and  more  shrewish  and  tormenting,  th' 
more  I  wanted  comfort. 

The  establishment  now  became1  a  scene  of  confusion  and 
peculation.  I  was  considered  a  ruined  man,  and  of  course  fair 
game  for  every  one  to  pluck  at,  as  every  one  plunders  a  sink- 
ing ship.  Day  after  day  some  of  the  troupe  deserted,  and  like 
deserting  soldiers,  carried  off  their  arms  and  accoutrements 
with  them.  In  this  manner  my  wardrobe  took  legs  and  walked 
away;  my  finery  strolled  all  over  the  country;  my  swords  and 
daggers  glittered  in  every  barn ;  until  at  last  my  tailor  made 
"  one  fell  swoop,"  and  carried  off  three  dress  coats,  half  a  dozen 
doublets,  and  nineteen  pair  of  flesh-colored  pantaloons. 

This  was  the  l'be  all  and  the  end  all"  of  my  fortune.  I  no 
longer  hesitated  what  to  do.  Egad,  thought  I,  since  stealing  is 
the  order  of  the  day,  I'll  steal  too.  So  I  secretly  gathered 
together  the  jewels  of  my  wardrobe ;  packed  up  a  hero's  dress 
in  a  handkerchief,  slung  it  on  the  end  of  a  tragedy  sword,  and 
quietly  stole  off  at  dead  of  night — "the  bell  then  beating  one," 
—leaving  my  queen  and  kingdom  to  the  mercy  of  my  rebellious 
subjects,  and  my  merciless  foes,  the  bum-bailiffs. 

Such,  sir,  was  the  "  end  of  all  my  greatness."  I  was  heartily 
cured  of  all  passion  for  governing,  and  returned  once  more  into 
the  ranks.  I  had  for  some  time  the  usual  run  of  an  actor's 
life.  I  played  in  various  country  theatres,  at  fairs,  and  in 
barns;  sometimes  hard  pushed;  sometimes  flush,  until  on  one 
occasion  I  came  within  an  ace  of  making  my  fortune,  an 
becoming  one  of  the  wonders  of  the  age. 

I  was  playing  the  part  of  Richard  the  Third  in  a  country 
barn,  and  absolutely  "  out-Heroding  Herod."  An  agent  of  one 
of  the  great  London  theatres  was  present.  He  was  on  the  look- 
out for  something  that  might  be  got  up  as  a  prodigy.  The 
theatre,  it  seems,  was  in  desperate  condition — nothing  but  a 
miracle  could  save  it.  He  pitched  upon  me  for  that  miracle. 
I  had  a  remarkable  bluster  in  my  style,  and  swagger  in  my 
gait,  and  having  taken  to  drink  a  little  during  my  troubles, 
my  voice  was  somewhat  cracked ;  so  that  it  seemed  like  two 
voices  run  into  one.     The  thought  struck  the  agent  to  bring 


THE  STROLLING  MANAGER.  15J 

me  out  as  a  theatrical  wonder;  as  the  restorer  of  natural  and 
legitimate  acting:  as  the  only  one  who  could  understand  and 
act  Shakspeare  rightly.  He  waited  upon  me  the  next  morn- 
ing, and  opened  Ins  plan.  I  shrunk  from  it  with  becoming 
modesty ;  for  well  as  I  thought  of  myself,  I  felt  myself  unworthy 
of  such  praise. 

•"'Sblood,  man V  said  he,  Cino  praise  at  all.  You  don't  im- 
agine that  I  think  you  all  this.  I  only  want  the  public  to 
think  so.  Nothing  so  easy  as  gulling  the  public  if  you  only  set 
up  a  prodigy.  You  need  not  try  to  act  well,  you  must  only  act 
furiously.  X o  matter  what  you  do,  or  how  you  act,  so  that  it 
be  but  odd  and  strange.  We  will  have  all  the  pit  packed,  and 
the  newspapers  hired.  Whatever  you  do  different  from  fam- 
ous actors,  it  shall  be  insisted  that  you  are  right  and  they  were 
wrong.  If  you  rani,  it  shall  be  pure  passion ;  if  you  are  vulgar, 
it  shall  be  a  touch  of  nature.  Every  one  shall  be  prepared  to 
fall  into  raptures,  and  shout  and  yell,  at  certain  points  which 
you  shall  make.  If  you  do  but  escape  pelting  the  first  night, 
your  fortune  and  the  fortune  of  the  theatre  is  made. " 

I  set  off  for  London,  therefore,  full  of  new  hopes.  I  was  to 
be  the  restorer  of  Shakspeare  and  nature,  and  the  legitimate 
drama ;  my  very  swagger  was  to  be  heroic,  and  my  cracked 
voice  the  standard  of  elocution.  Alas,  sir !  my  usual  luck  at- 
tended me.  Before  I  arrived  in  the  metropolis,  a  rival  wonder 
had  appeared.  A  woman  who  could  dance  the  slack  rope,  and 
run  up  a  cord  from  the  stage  to  the  gallery  with  fire-works  all 
round  her.  She  was  seized  on  by  the  management  with 
avidity ;  she  was  the  saving  of  the  great  national  theatre  for 
the  season.  Nothing  was  talked  of  but  Madame  Saqui's  fire- 
works and  flame-colored  pantaloons;  and  nature,  Shakspeaiv. 
the  legitimate  drama,  and  poor  Pillgarlick  were  completely 
left  in  the  lurch. 

However,  as  the  manager  was  in  honor  bound  to  provide  for 
me,  he  kept  his  word.  It  had  been  a  turn-up  of  a  die  whether 
I  should  be  Alexander  the  Great  or  Alexander  the  copper- 
smith ;  the  latter  carried  it.  I  could  not  be  put  at  the  head  of 
the  drama,  so  I  was  put  at  the  tail.  In  other  words,  I  was  en- 
rolled among  the  number  of  what  are  called  useful  men;  who, 
let  me  tell  you,  are  the  only  comfortable  actors  on  the  stage. 
We  are  safe  from  hisses  and  below  the  hope  of  applause.  We 
fear  not  the  success  of  rivals,  nor  dread  the  critic's  pen.  So  long 
as  we  get  the  words  of  our  parts,  and  they  are  not  often  many, 
it  is  all  we  care  for.    We  have  our  own  merriment,  our  own 


152  TALES   f>F  A    TRAVELLER. 

friends,  and  our  own  admirers ;  for  every  actor  has  his  friends 
and  admirers,  from  the  highest  to  the  lowest.  The  first-rate 
actor  dines  with  the  noble  amateur,  and  entertains  a  fashion- 
able table  with  snaps  and  songs  and  theatrical  slip-slop.  The 
second-rate  actors  have  their  second-rate  friends  and  admirers, 
with  whom  they  likewise  spout  tragedy  and  talk  slip-slop ;  and 
so  down  even  to  US;  who  have  our  friends  and  admirers  among 
spruce  clerks  and  aspiring  apprentices,  who  treat  us  to  a  din 
ner  now  and  then,  and  enjoy  at  tenth  hand  the  same  scraps 
and  songs  and  slip-slop  that  have  been  served  up  by  our  more 
fortunate  brethren  at  the  tables  of  the  great. 

I  now,  for  the  first  time  in  my  theatrical  life,  knew  what 
true  pleasure  is.  I  have  known  enough  of  notoriety  to  pity  the 
poor  devils  who  are  called  favorites  of  the  public.  I  would 
rather  be  a  kitten  in  the  arms  of  a  spoiled  child,  to  be  one 
moment  petted  and  pampered,  and  the  next  moment  thumped 
over  the  head  with  the  spoon.  I  smile,  too,  to  see  our  leading 
actors,  fretting  themselves  with  envy  and  jealousy  about  a 
trumpery  renown,  questionable  in  its  quality  and  uncertain  in 
in  its  duration.  I  laugh,  too,  though  of  course  in  my  sleeve,  at 
the  bustle  and  importance  and  trouble  and  perplexities  of  oui 
manager,  who  is  harassing  himself  to  death  in  the  hopeless 
effort  to  please  every  body. 

I  have  found  among  my  fellow  subalterns  two  or  three 
quondam  managers,  who,  like  myself,  have  wielded  the  scep- 
tres of  country  theatres;  and  we  have  many  a  sly  joke  to- 
gether at  the  expense  of  the  manager  and  the  public.  Some- 
times, too.  we  meet  like  deposed  and  exiled  kings,  talk  over  the 
events  of  our  respective  reigns ;  moralize  over  a  tankard  of  ale, 
and  laugh  at  the  humbug  of  the  great  and  little  world;  which 
I  take  it,  is  the  very  essence  of  practical  philosophy. 


Thus  end  the  anecdotes  of  Buckthorne  and  his  friends.  A 
few  mornings  after  our  hearing  the  history  of  the  ex-manager, 
he  bounced  into  my  room  before  I  was  out  of  bed. 

"Give  me  joy!  give  me  joy!"  said  he,  rubbing  his  hands 
with  the  utmost  glee,  "  my  great  expectations  are  realized!" 

I  stared  at  him  with  a  look  of  wonder  and  inquiry.  l'My 
booby  cousin  is  dead!"  cried  he,  "may  he  rest  in  peace!  Ho 
nearly  broke  his  neck  in  a  fall  from  his  horse  in  a  fox-chase. 
By  good  luck  he  lived  long  enough  to  make  his  will.  He  has 
made  me  his  heir,  partly  out  of  an  odd  feeling  of  retributive 
justice,  and  partly  because,  as  he  says,  none  of  his  own  familv 


IE  STROLLING    MANAGER.  153 

or  friends  know  how  to  enjoy  such  an  estate.  I'm  off  to  the 
country  to  take  possession.  I've  done  with  authorship. — That 
for  the  critics !"  said  he,  snapping  his  fingers.  "Come  down  to 
Doubting  Castle  when  I  get  settled,  and  egad !  I'll  give  you  a 
rouse."  So  saying  he  shook  me  heartily  by  the  hand  and 
bounded  off  in  high  spirits. 

A  long  time  elapsed  before  I  heard  from  him  again.  Indeed, 
it  was  but  a  short  tune  since  that  I  received  a  letter  written  in 
che  happiest  of  moods.  He  was  getting  the  estate  into  fine 
order,  every  thing  went  to  his  wishes,  and  what  was  more,  he 
was  married  to  Sacharissa:  who,  it  seems,  had  always  enter- 
tained an  ardent  tnough  secret  attachment  for  him,  which  he 
fortunately  discovered  just  after  coming  to  his  estate. 

"  I  find," said  he,  "you  are  a  little  given  to  the  sin  of  author- 
ship which  I  renounce.  If  the  anecdotes  I  have  given  you  of 
my  story  are  of  any  interest,  you  may  make  use  of  them ;  but 
come  down  to  Doubting  Castle  and  see  how  we  live,  and  I'll 
give  you  my  whole  London  life  over  a  social  glass;  and  a 
rattling  history  it  shall  be  about  authors  and  reviewers." 


If  ever  I  visit  Doubting  Castle,   and   get  the   history  he 
promises,  the  public  shall  be  sure  to  hear  of  it. 


TALES  OF  A  TRAVELLER. 


PART  THIRD. 


THE  ITALIAN  liAXDITTI. 


THE  INN  AT  TERRACINA. 

Crack!  crack!  crack!  crack!  crack! 

"Here  comes  the  estafette  from  Naples."  said  mine  host  of 
the  inn  at  Terracina,  "bring  out  the  relay." 

The  estafette  came  as  usual  galloping  up  the  road,  brandish- 
ing over  his  head  a  short-handled  whip,  with  a  long  knotted 
lash .  every  smack  of  which  made  a  report  like  a  pistol.  He 
i  tight  square-set  young  fellow,  in  the  customary  uniform-! 
a  smart  blue  coat,  ornamented  with  facings  and  gold  lace,  but  so 
short  behind  as  to  reach  scarcely  below  his  waistband,  and 
cocked  up  not  unlike  the  tail  of  a  wren.  A  cocked  hat,  edged 
with  gold  lace ;  a  pair  of  stiff  riding  boots ;  but  instead  of  the 
usual  leathern  breeches  he  had  a  fragment  of  a  pair  of  drawers 
that  scarcely  furnished  an  apology  for  modesty  to  hide  behind. 

The  estafette  galloped  up  to  the  door  and  jumped  from  his 
horse. 

"A  glass  of  rosolio,  a  fresh  horse,  and  a  pair  of  breeches," 
said  he,  ' '  and  quickly — I  am  behind  ray  time,  and  must  be 
off." 

"San  Genaro!"  replied  the  host,  "why,  where  hast  thou  left 
thy  garment?" 

"Among  the  robbers  between  this  and  Fondi." 

"What!  rob  an  estafette !  I  never  heard  of  such  folly.  What 
could  they  hope  to  get  from  thee  ?" 


THE  INN  AT  TERBACTNA.  15(> 

" My  leather  breeches!"  replied  the  estafette.  "They  were 
bran  new.  and  shone  like  gold,  and  hit  the  fancy  of  the  captain. " 

11  Well,  these  fellows  grow  worse  and  worse.  To  meddle  with 
an  estafette !  And  that  merely  for  the  sake  of  a  pair  of  leather 
breeches  [" 

The  robbing  of  a  government  messenger  seemed  to  strike  the 
host  with  more  astonishment  than  any  other  enormity  that 
had  taken  place  on  the  road ;  and  indeed  it  was  the  first  time 
so  wanton  an  outrage  had  been  committed ;  the  robbers  gen- 
erally taking  care  not  to  meddle  with  any  thing  belonging  to 
government. 

The  estafette  was  by  tins  time  equipped ;  for  he  had  not  lost 
an  instant  in  making  his  preparations  while  talking.  The 
relay  was  ready :  the  rosolio  tossed  off.  He  grasped  the  reins 
and  the  stirrup. 

"Were  there  many  robbers  in  the  band?"  said  a  handsome, 
dark  young  man,  stepping  forward  from  the  door  of  the  inn. 

"As  formidable  a  band  as  ever  I  saw,"  said  the  estafette, 
springing  into  the  saddle. 

"Are  they  cruel  to  travellers?"  said  a  beautiful  young  Vene- 
tian lady,  who  had  been  hanging  on  the  gentleman's  arm. 

"  Cruel,  signora!"  echoed  the  estafette,  giving  a  glance  at  the 
lady  as  he  put  spurs  to  his  horse.  "  Corpo  del  Bacco!  they 
stiletto  all  the  men,  and -as  to  the  women " 

Crack!  crack!  crack!  crack!  crack! — the  last  words  were 
drowned  in  the  smacking  of  the  whip,  and  away  galloped  the 
estafette  along  the  road  to  the  Pontine  marshes. 

"Holy  Virgin!"  ejaculated  the  fair  Venetian,  "what  will 
become  of  us !" 

The  inn  of  Terracina  stands  just  outside  of  the  walls  of  the 
old  town  of  that  name,  on  the  frontiers  of  the  Roman  territory. 
A  little,  lazy,  Italian  town,  the  inhabitants  of  which,  apparently 
heedless  and  listless,  are  said  to  be  little  better  than  the  brig- 
ands which  surround  them,  and  indeed  are  half  of  them  sup- 
posed to  be  in  some  way  or  other  connected  with  the  robbers. 
A  vast,  rocky  height  rises  perpendicularly  above  it.  with  the 
ruins  of  the  castle  of  Theodorie  the  Goth,  crowning  its  summit; 
before  it  spreads  the  wide  bosom  of  the  Mediterranean,  that  sea 
without  flux  or  reflux.  There  seems  an  idle  pause  in  every 
thing  about  this  place.  The  port  is  without  a  sail,  excepting 
that  once  in  a  while  a  solitary  felucca  may  be  seen,  disgorging 
its  holy  cargo  of  baccala,  the  meagre  provision  tor  the  Qua- 
resima  or  Lent.     The  naked  watch  towers,  rising  here  and 


156  TALES  OF  A    TJIAVMLLEK. 

there  along  the  coast,  speak  of  pirates  and  corsairs  which  hover 
about  these  shores:  While  the  low  lints,  as  stations  for  soldiers, 
which  dot  the  distant  road,  as  it  winds  through  an  olive  grove, 
intimate  that  in  the  ascent  there  is  danger  for  the  traveller  and 
facility  for  the  bandit. 

Indeed,  it  is  between  this  town  and  Fondi  that  the  road  to 
Naples  is  mostly  infested  by  banditti.  It  winds  among  rocky 
and  solitary  places,  where  the  robbers  &re  enabled  to  see  the 
traveller  from  a  distance  from  the  brows  of  hills  or  impend  inf.-; 
precipices,  and  to  lie  in  wait  for  him,  at  the  lonely  and  difficult 
pass* 

At  the  time  that  the  estafette  made  this  sudden  appearance, 
almost  in  CU&rpo^  the  audacity  of  the  robbers  had  risen  to  an 
ralleled  height.  They  had  their  Spies  and  emissaries  in 
.  town,  village,  and  osteria,  to  give  them  notice  of  the 
quality  and  movements  of  travellers.  They  did  not  scruple  to 
send  •  into  the  country  towns  and  villas,  demanding 

u  sums  of  money,  or  articles  of  dress  and  luxury;  with 
menaces  of  vengeance  in  case  of  refusal.  They  had  plundered 
carriages;  carried  people  of  rank  and  fortune  into  the  moun- 
tains and  obliged  them  to  write  for  heavy  ransoms ;  and  had 
committed  outrages  on  females  who  had  fallen  in  their  power. 

'The  police  exerted  its  rigor  in  vain.  The  brigands  were  too 
iiumerous  and  powerful  for  a  weak  police.  They  were  counten- 
anced and  cherished  by  several  of  the  villages;  and  though 
now  and  then  the  limbs  of  malefactors  hung  blackening  in  the 
vrees  near-which  they  had  committed  some  atrocity ;  or  their 
ueads  stuck  upon  posts  in  iron  cages  made  some  dreary  part  of 
vhe  road  still  more  dreary,  still  they  seemed  to  strike  dismay 
into  no  bosom  but  that  of  the  traveller. 

The  dark,  handsome  young  man,  and  the  Venetian  lady, 
Whom  I  have  mentioned,  had  arrived  early  that  afternoon  in  a 
private  carriage,  drawn  by  mules  and  attended  by  a  single 
servant.  They  had  been  recently  married,  were  spending  the 
noneymoon  in  travelling  through  these  delicious  countries,  and 
were  on  their  way  to  visit  a  rich  aunt  of  the  young  lady's  at 
Naples. 

The  lady  was  young,  and  tender  and  timid.  The  stories  she 
had  heard  along  the  road  had  filled  her  with  apprehension,  not 
more  for  herself  than  for  her  husband ;  for  though  she  had 
been  married  almost  a  month,  she  still  loved  him  almost  to 
idolatry.  When  she  reached  Terracina  the  rumors  of  the  road 
had  increased  to  an  alarming  magnitude ;  and  the  sight  of  two 


THE  INN  AT  TI-llUACINA.  157 

robbers'  skulls  grinning  in  iron  rages  on  each  side  of  the  old 
gateway  of  the  town  brought  her  to  a  pause.  Her  husband 
had  tried  in  vain  to  reassure  her.  They  had  lingered  all  the 
afternoon  at  the  inn,  until  it  was  too  late  to  think  of  starting 
that  evening,  and  the  parting  words  of  the  estafette  completed 
her  affright. 

"  Let  us  return  to  Rome,"  said  she,  putting  her  arm  within 
ner  husband's,  and  drawing  towards  him  as  if  for  protection — 
" let  us  return  to  Rome  and  give  up  this  visit  to  Naples." 

"  And  give  up  the  visit  to  your  aunt,  too,"  said  the  husband. 

' '  Nay— what  is  my  aunt  in  comparison  with  your  safety, " 
said  she,  looking  up  tenderly  in  his  face. 

There  v^as  something  in  her  tone  and  manner  that  showed 
she  really  was  thinking  more  of  her  husband's  safety  at  that 
moment  than  of  her  own ;  and  being  recently  married,  and  a 
match  of  pure  affection,  too,  it  is  very  possible  that  she  was. 
At  least  her  husband  thought  so.  Indeed,  any  one  who  has 
heard  the  sweet,  musical  tone  of  a  Venetian  voice,  and  the 
melting  tenderness  of  a  Venetian  phrase,  and  felt  the  soft 
witchery  of  a  Venetian  eye,  would  not  wonder  at  the  hus- 
band's believing  whatever  they  professed. 

He  clasped  the  white  hand  that  had  been  laid  within  his,  put 
his  arm  round  her  slender  waist,  and  drawing  her  fondly  to  his 
bosom— ''This  night  at  least,"  said  he,  "well  pass  at  Ter- 
racina." 

Crack!  crack!  crack!  crack!  crack! 

Another  apparition  of  the  road  attracted  the  attention  of 
mine  host  and  his  guests.  From  the  road  across  the  Pontine 
marshes,  a  carriage  drawn  by  half  a  dozen  horses,  came  driv- 
ing at  a  furious  pace— the  postillions  smacking  their  whips!  like 
mad,  as  is  the  case  when  conscious  of  the  greatness  or  the 
munificence  of  their  fare.  It  was  a  landaulet,  with  a  servant 
mounted  on  the  dickey.  The  compact,  highly  finished,  yet 
proudly  simple  construction  of  the  carriage ;  the  quantity  of 
'.HN'.i.  well-arranged  trunks  and  conveniences;  the  loads  of  box 
coats  and  upper  benjamins  on  Die  dickey— and  the  fresh,  burly, 
gruff  -looking  face  at  the  window,  proclaimed  at  once  that  it 
he  equipage  of  an  Englishman. 

"Fresh  horses  to  Fonoi,"  said  the  Englishman,  as  the  land- 
lord came  bowing  to  the  carriage  door. 

"Would  not  his  Excellenza  alight  and  take  some  refresh 
a1  :" 

"No— he  did  not  mean  to  eat  until  he  £ot  to  Fondi!" 


158 


TALES  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 


"  But  the  horses  will  be  some  time  in  getting  ready—" 
»Ah— that's  always  the  case-no  aiing   but  delay  in  this 
cursed  country/'  # 

"  If  his  Excellenza  would  only  walk  into  the  nouse— 

•No  no    no!— I  tell  you  no!— I  want  nothing  but  horses, 

and  as  quick  as  possible.    John'  see  that  the  horses  are  got 

ready  and  don't  let  us  be  kept  here  an  hour  or  two.     Tell  him 

te  delayed  over  the  time  I'll  lodge  a  complaint  with  the 

^John  touched  his  hat,  and  set  off  to  obey  his  master's  orders, 
with  the  taciturn  obedience  of  en  English  servant.  He  was  a 
ruddy  round-faced  fellow,  with  hair  cropped  close;  a  short 
coat^drab  breeches,  and  long  gaiters;  and  appeared  to  have 
almost  as  much  contempt  as  his  master  for  every  thing  around 

In  the  mean  time  the  Englishman  got  out  of  the  carriage  and 
walked  up  and  down  before  the  inn,  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets:  taking  no  notice  of  the  crowd  of  idlers  who  were 
gazing  at  him  and  his  equipage.  He  was  tall,  stout,  and  well 
made-  dressed  with  neatness  and  precision,  wore  a  travel  him - 
cat)  of  the  color  of  gingerbread,  and  had  rather  an  unhappy 
expression  about  the  corners  of  his  mouth;  partly  from  not 
ing  yet  made  his  dinner,  and  partly  from  not  navmg  been 
able  to  get  on  at  a  greater  rate  than  seven  miies  an  hour, 
that  he  had  any  other  cause  for  haste  than  an  English- 
man's usual  hurry  to  get  to  the  end  of  a  journey;  or,  to  use 
the  regular  phrase,  "  to  get  on." 

After  some  time  the  servant  returned  from  the  stable  with 
an  sour  a  look  as  his  master. 
"Are  the  horses  ready,  John?" 

«  NOj  sir— I  never  saw  such  a  place.  There's  no  getting  any- 
thing done.  I  think  your  honor  had  better  step  into  the  house 
and  get  something  to  eat;  it  will  be  a  long  while  before  we  get 

to  Fundy." 

«  p n  the  house— it's  a  mere  trick— I'll  not  eat  anything, 

just  to  spite  them,"  said  the  Englishman,  still  more  crusty  at 
the  prospect  of  being  so  long  without  his  dinner. 

"  They  say  your  honor's  very  wrong,"  said  John,  "  to  set  off 
at  this  fate  hour.     The  road's  full  of  highwaymen." 

"Mere  tales  to  get  custom." 

"The  estafette  which  passed  us  was  stopped  by  a  whole 
gang."  said  John,  increasing  his  emphasis  with  each  additional 
piece  of  information. 


THE  INN  AT  TEHRACINJl.  In? 

1  don't  believe  a  word  of  it." 

••They  robbed  him  of  his  breeches,"  said  John,  giving  at  the 
same  time  a  hitch  to  his  own  waist -band. 
"All  humbug !" 

Here  the  dark,  handsome  young  man  stepped  forward  and 
addressing  the  Englishman  very  politely  in  broken  English, 
invited  him  to  partake  of  a  repast  he  was  about  to  make, 
"  Thankee,"  said  the  Englishman,  thrusting  his  hands  deeper 
into  his  pockets,  and  casting  a  slight  side  glance  of  suspicion  at 
the  young  man,  as  if  he  thought  from  his  civility  he  must  have 
a  design  upon  his  purse. 

"  We  shall  be  most  happy  if  you  will  do  us  that  favor,"  said 
the  lady,  in  her  soft  Venetian  dialect.  There  was  a  sweetness 
in  her  accents  that  was  most  persuasive.  The  Englishman  cast 
a  look  upon  her  countenance ;  her  beauty  was  still  more  elo- 
quent. His  features  instantly  relaxed.  He  made  an  attempt 
at  a  civil  bow.     ' '  With  great  pleasure,  signora,"  said  he. 

In  short,  the  eagerness  to  "get  on"  was  suddenly  slackened; 
the  determination  to  famish  himself  as  far  as  Fondi  by  way  of 
punishing  the  landlord  was  abandoned;  John  chose  the  best 
apartment  in  the  inn  for  his  master's  reception,  and  prepara- 
tions were  made  to  remain  there  until  morning. 

The  carriage  was  unpacked  of  such  of  its  contents  as  were 
indispensable  for  the  night.  There  was  the  usual  parade  of 
trunks  and  writing-desks,  and  portfolios,  and  dressing-boxes, 
and  those  other  oppressive  conveniences  which  burden  a  com- 
fortable man.  The  observant  loiterers  about  the  inn  door, 
wrapped  up  in  great  dirt-colored  cloaks,  with  only  a  hawk's 
eye  uncovered,  made  many  remarks  to  each  other  on  this 
quantity  of  luggage  that  seemed  enough  for  an  army.  And 
the  domestics  of  the  inn  talked  with  wonder  of  the  splendid 
dressing-case,  with  its  gold  ana  silver  furniture  that  was 
spread  out  on  the  toilette  table,  and  the  bag  of  gold  that 
chinked  as  it  was  taken  out  of  the  trunk.  The  strange 
';  Milor's"  wealth,  and  the  treasures  ne  carried  about  him,  were 
the  talk,  that  evening,  over  all  Terracina. 

The  Englishman  took  some  time  to  make  his  ablutions  and 
arrange  his  dress  for  table,  and  after  considerable  labor  and 
effort  in  putting  himself  at  his  ease,  made  his  appearance,  with 
stiff  white  cravat,  his  clothes  free  from  the  least  speck  of  dust, 
and  adjusted  with  precision.  He  made  a  formal  bow  on  enter- 
ing, which  no  doubt  he  meant  to  be  cordial,  but  which  any  one 
else  would  have  considered  cool,  and  took  his  seat. 


160  TALES  OF  A    TliAVh'JJ 

The  supper,  as  it  was  termed  by  the  Italian,  or  dinner,  as  the 
Englishman  called  it,  was  now  served.     Heaven  and  earth  and 
the  waters  under  the  earth,  had  been  moved  to  furnish  it  for 
there  were  birds  of  the  air  and  beasts  of  the  earth  and  fish  of 
the    sea       The  Englishman's    servant,   too,   had  turned   the 
kitchen  topsy-turvy  in  nis  zeal  to  cook  his  master  a  beefsteak; 
and  made  his  appearance  loaded  with  ketchup,  and  soy,  and 
Cayenne  pepper,  and  Harvey  sauce,  and  a  bottle  of  port  wme 
•rum  that  warehouse,  the  carriage,  in  which  his  master  seemed 
desirous   of   carrying  England  about  the  world  with   him. 
Everv   thing,   however,   according    to  the  Englishman,   was 
execrable     The  tureen  of  soup  was  a  black  sea,  with  livers 
and  limbs  and  fragments  of  all  kinds  of  birds  and  beasts,  float- 
ing like  wrecks  about  it.     A  meagre  winged  animal,  which  my 
host  called  a  delicate  chicken,  was  too  delicate  for  his  stomach, 
for  it  had  evidently  died  of  a  consumption.    The  macaroni  was 
smoked      The  beefsteak  was  tough  buffalo's   flesh,  and  the 
countenance  of  mine  host  conhrmed  the  assertion     Nothing 
seemed  to  hit  his  palate  but  a  dish  of  stewed  eels,  of  which  he 
ate  with  great  relish,  but  had  nearly  refunded  them  when  told 
that  they  were  vipers,  caught  among  the  rocks  of  Terracma, 
and  esteemed  a  great  delicacy. 

In  short,  the  Englishman  ate  and  growled,  and  ate  and 
growled,  like  a  cat  eating  in  company,  pronouncing  himself 
poisoned  by  every  dish,  yet  eating  on  in  defiance  of  death  arid 
the  doctor.  The  Venetian' lady,  not  accustomed  to  English 
travellers,  almost  repented  having  persuaded  him  to  the  meal; 
for  though  very  gracious  to  her,  he  was  so  crusty  to  all  the 
world  belide,  that  she  stood  in  awe  of  him.  There  is  nothing, 
however,  that  conquers  John  Bull's  crustiness  sooner  than  eat- 
ing, whatever  may  be  the  cookery;  and  nothing  brings  hrm 
into  good  humor  with  his  company  sooner  than  eating  together ; 
the  Englishman,  therefore,  had  not  half  finished  his  repast  and 
his  bottle,  before  he  began  to  think  the  Venetian  a  very  tolera- 
ble fellow  for  a  foreigner,  and  his  wife  almost  handsome  enough 
to  be  an  Englishwoman. 

In  the  course  of  the  repast  the  tales  of  robbers  which  har- 
assed the  mind  of  the  fair  Venetian,  were  brought  into  discus- 
sion The  landlord  and  the  waiter  served  up  such  a  number  of 
them  as  they  served  up  the  dishes,  that  they  almost  frightened 
away  the  poor  lady's  appetite.  Among  these  was  the  story  of 
the  school  of  Terracina,  still  fresh  in  every  mind  where  the 
students  were  carried  up  the  mountains  by  the  banditti,  in 


THE  INN  AT  TEMBACISA.  161 

hopes  of  ransom,  and  one  of  them  massacred,  to  bring  the 
parents  to  terms  for  the  others.  There  was  a  story  also  of  a 
gentleman  of  Rome,  who  delayed  remitting  the  ransom 
demanded  for  his  son,  detained  by  the  banditti,  and  received 
one  of  his  son's  ears  in  a  letter  with  information  that  the  other 
would  be  remitted  to  him  soon,  if  the  money  were  not  forth- 
coming, and  that  in  this  way  he  would  receive  the  boy  by  in- 
stalments until  he  came  to  terms. 

The  fair  Venetian  shuddered  as  she  heard  these  tales.  The 
landlord,  like  a  true  story-teller,  doubled  the  dose  when  he 
saw  how  it  operated.  He  was  just  proceeding  to  relate  the 
misfortunes  of  a  great  English  lord  and  his  family,  when  the 
Englishman,  tired  of  his  volubility,  testily  interrupted  him, 
and  pronounced  these  accounts  mere  traveller's  tales,  or  the 
exaggerations  of  peasants  and  innkeepers.  The  landlord  was 
indignant  at  the  doubt  levelled  at  his  stories,  and  the  innuendo 
levelled  at  his  cloth ;  he  cited  half  a  dozen  stories  still  more 
terrible,  to  corroborate  those  he  had  already  told. 

' '  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  them, "  said  the  Englishman. 

"But  the  robbers  had  been  tried  and  executed." 

"All  a  farce  !" 

"But  their  heads  were  stuck  up  along  the  road." 

'  •  Old  skulls  accumulated  during  a  century. " 

The  landlord  muttered  to  himself  as  he  went  out  at  the  door, 
"San  Genaro,  come  sono  singolari  questi  Inglesi." 

A  fresh  hubbub  outside  of  the  inn  announced  the  arrival  of 
more  travellers:  and  from  the  variety  of  voices,  or  rather 
clamors,  the  clattering  of  horses'  hoofs,  the  rattling  of  wheels, 
and  the  general  uproar  both  within  and  without,  the  arrival 
seemed  to  be  numerous.  It  was,  in  fact,  the  procaccio,  and  its 
convoy — a  kind  of  caravan  of  merchandise,  that  sets  out  on 
stated  days,  under  an  escort  of  soldiery  to  protect  it  from  the 
robbers.  Travellers  avail  themselves  of  the  occasion,  and  many 
earriages  accompany  the  procaccio.  It  was  a  long  time  before 
either  landlord  or  waiter  returned,  being  hurried  away  by  the 
tempest  of  new  custom.  When  mine  host  appeared,  there  was 
a  smile  of  triumph  on  his  countenance. — "  Perhaps, "  said  he, 
as  he  cleared  away  the  table,  "perhaps  the  signor  has  not 
heard  of  what  has  happened.'' 

"What?"  said  the  Englishman,  drily. 

"Oh,  the  procaccio  has  arrived,  and  has  brought  accounts  of 
fresh  exploits  of  the  robbers,  signor. " 

"Pish!" 


162  TALES  OF  A    TRA  FELLER 

"There's  more  news  of  the  English  Mi  lor  and  his  family," 
said  the  host,  emphatically. 

An  English  lord.— What  English  lord  T 

"  Milor  Popkin. " 

"  Lord  Popkin?    I  never  heard  of  such  a  title !" 

11  O  Sicuro — a  great  nobleman  that  passed  through  here 
lately  with  his  Milady  and  daughters — a  magnifico — one  of  the 
grand  councillors  of  London— un  almanno." 

1  Almanno — almanno? — tut!  he  means  alderman.*' 

"Sicuro.  aldermanno  Popkin,  and  the  principezza  Popkin, 
and  the  signorina  Popkin !"  said  mine  host,  triumphantly.  He 
would  now  have  entered  into  a  full  detail,  but  was  thwarted 
by  the  Englishman,  who  seemed  determined  not  to  credit  or 
indulge  him  in  his  stories.  An  Italian  tongue,  however,  is  not 
easily  checked :  that  of  mine  host  continued  to  run  on  with 
increasing  volubility  as  he  conveyed  the  fragments  of  the 
repast  out  of  the  room,  and  the  last  that  could  be  distinguished 
of  his  voice,  as  it  died  away  along  the  corridor,  was  the  con- 
stant recurrence  of  the  favorite  word  Popkin — Popkin — Pop- 
kin—pop— pop— pop. 

The  arrival  of  the  procaccio  had  indeed  filled  the  house  with 
stories  as  it  had  with  guests.  The  Englishman  and  his  com- 
panions walked  out  after  supper  into  the  great  hall,  or  com- 
mon room  of  the  inn,  which  runs  through  the  centre  building ; 
a  gloomy,  dirty-looking  apartment,  with  tables  placed  in  vari- 
ous parts  of  it,  at  which  some  of  the  travellers  were  seated  in 
groups,  while  others  strolled  about  in  famished  impatience  for 
their  evening's  meal.  As  the  procaccio  was  a  kind  of  caravan 
of  travellers,  there  were  people  of  every  class  and  country,  who 
had  come  in  all  kinds  of  vehicles ;  and  though  they  kept  in 
some  measure  in  separate  parties,  yet  the  being  united  under 
one  common  escort  had  jumbled  them  into  companionship  on 
the  road.  Their  formidable  number  and  the  formidable  guard 
that  accompanied  them,  had  prevented  any  molestation  from 
the  banditti;  but  every  carriage  had  its  tale  of  wonder,  and 
one  vied  with  another  in  the  recital.  Not  one  but  had  seen 
groups  of  robbers  peering  over  the  rocks ;  or  their  guns  peeping 
out  from  among  the  bushes,  or  had  been  reconnoitred  by  some 
suspicious-looking  fellow  with  scowling  eye,  who  disappeared 
on  seeing  the  guard. 

The  fair  Venetian  listened  to  all  these  stories  with  that  eager 
curiosity  with  which  we  seek  to  pamper  any  feeling  of  alarm. 
Even  the  Englishman  hegsn  vo  feel  interested  in  the  subject, 


THE  ISS  AT  TERRAC1NA. 

and  desirous  of  gaining  more  correct  information  than  these 
mere  flying  reports.  He  mingled  in  one  of  the  groups  which 
appeared  to  be  the  most  respectable,  and  which  was  assembled 
round  a  tall,  thin  person,  with  long  Roman  nose,  a  high  fore- 
head, and  lively  prominent  eye.  beaming  from  under  a  green 
velvet  travelling-cap  with  gold  tassel.  He  was  holding  forth 
with  all  the  fluency  of  a  man  who  talks  well  and  likes  to  exert 
his  talent.  He  was  of  Rome;  a  surgeon  by  profession,  a  poet 
by  choice,  and  one  who  was  something  of  an  improwisatore. 
He  soon  gave  the  Englishman  abundance  of  information 
respecting  the  banditti.  ; '  The  fact  is, "  said  he,  ' '  that  many  of 
the  people  hi  the  villages  among  the  mountains  are  robbers,  or 
rather  the  robbers  find  perfect  asylum  among  them.  They 
range  over  a  vast  extent  of  wild  impracticable  country,  along 
the  chain  of  Apennines,  bordering  on  different  states;  they 
know  all  the  difficult  passes,  the  short  cuts  and  strong-holds. 
They  are  secure  of  the  good-will  of  the  poor  and  peaceful 
inhabitants  of  those  regions,  whom  they  never  disturb,  and 
whom  they  often  enrich.  Indeed,  they  are  looked  upon  as  a 
sort  of  illegitimate  heroes  among  the  mountain  villages,  and 
some  of  the  frontier  towns,  where  they  dispose  of  their 
plunder.  From  these  mountains  they  keep  a  look-out  upon 
the  plains  and  valleys,  and  meditate  their  descents. 

'The  road  to  Fondi,  which  you  are  about  to  travel,  is  one  of 
the  places  most  noted  for  their  exploits.  It  is  overlooked  from 
some  distance  by  little  hamlets,  perched  upon  heights.  From 
hence,  the  brigands,  like  hawks  in  their  nests,  keep  on  the 
watch  for  such  travellers  as  are  likely  to  afford  either  booty  or 
ransom.  The  windings  of  the  road  enable  them  to  see  carriages 
long  before  they  pass,  so  that  they  have  time  to  get  to  some 
advantageous  lurking-place  from  whence  to  pounce  upon  their 
prey." 

"But  why  does  not  the  police  interfere  and  root  them  out?" 
Baid  the  Englishman. 

"The  police  is  too  week  and  the  banditti  are  too  strong,'1 
replied  the  improwisatore.  "To  root  them  out  would  be  a 
more  difficult  task  than  you  imagine.  They  are  connected  and 
identified  with  the  people  of  the  villages  and  the  peasantry 
generally:  the  numerous  bands  have  an  understanding  with 
each  other,  and  with  people  of  various  conditions  in  all  parts 
of  the  country.  They  know  all  that  is  going  on ;  a  gens  cParnu  s 
cannot  stir  without  their  being  aware  of  it.  They  have  their 
and  emissaries  in  everj  ■V"  they  lurk  about  towns. 


1 64  TA  L  KS   0  F  A    Tl;A  1  'EL  L  ER 

villages,  inns.— mingle  in  every  crowd,  pervade  every  place  of 
resort.  I  should  not  be  surprised,"  said  he,  "if  some  one 
should  be  supervising  us  at  this  moment.*' 

The  fair  Venetian  looked  round  fearfully  and  turned  pale. 

"  One  peculiarity  of  the  Italian  banditti"  continued  the  im- 
prowisatore,  "is  that  they  wear  a  kind  of  uniform,  or  rather 
costume,  which  designates  their  profession.  This  is  probably 
done  to  take  away  from  its  skulking  lawless  character,  and  to 
give  it  something  of  a  military  air  in  the  eyes  of  the  common 
people;  or  perhaps  to  catch  by  outward  dash  and  show  the 
fancies  of  the  young  men  of  the  villages.  These  dresses  or  cos- 
tumes are  often  rich  and  fanciful.  Some  wear  jackets  and 
breeches  of  bright  colors,  richly  embroidered;  broad  belts  of 
cloth ;  or  sashes  of  silk  net ;  broad,  high-crowned  hats,  decor- 
ated Avith  feathers  of  variously-colored  ribbands,  and  silk  nets 
for  the  hair. 

"Many  of  the  robbers  are  peasants  who  follow  ordinary 
occupations  in  the  villages  for  a  part  of  the  year,  and  take  to 
the  mountains  for  the  rest.  Some  only  go  out  for  a  season,  as 
it  were,  on  a  hunting  expedition,  and  then  resume  the  dress 
and  habits  of  common  life.  Many  of  the  young  men  of  the 
villages  take  to  this  kind  of  life  occasionally  from  a  mere  love 
of  adventure,  the  wild  wandering  spirit  of  youth  and  the  con- 
tagion of  bad  example ;  but  it  is  remarked  that  they  can  never 
after  brook  a  long  continuance  in  settled  life.  They  get  fond 
of  the  unbounded  freedom  and  rude  license  they  enjoy ;  and 
there  is  something  in  this  wild  mountain  life  checquered  by 
adventure  and  peril,  that  is  wonderfully  fascinating,  inde- 
pendent of  the  gratificatin  of  cupidity  by  the  plunder  of  the 
wealthy  traveller." 

Here  the  improwisatore  was  interrupted  by  a  lively  Nea- 
politan lawyer.  "Your  mention  of  the  younger  robbers,"  said 
he,  "puts  me  in  mind  of  an  adventure  of  a  learned  doctor,  a 
friend  of  mine,  which  happened  in  this  very  neighborhood. " 

A  wish  was  of  course  expressed  to  hear  the  adventure  of  the 
doctor  by  all  except  the  improwisatore,  who,  being  fond  of 
talking  and  of  hearing  himself  talk,  and  accustomed  moreover 
to  harangue  without  interruption,  looked  rather  annoyed  at 
being  checked  when  in  full  career. 

The  Neapolitan,  however,  took  no  notice  of  his  chagrin,  but 
related  the  following  anecdote. 


TEE  ADVENTURE  OF  TILE  LITTLE  AWTIQUART.   165 


THE  ADVENTURE  OF  THE  LITTLE  ANTIQUARY. 

My  friend  the  doctor  was  a  thorough  antiquary:  a  little, 
rusty,  musty  old  fellow,  always  groping  among  ruins.  He 
relished  a  building  as  you  Englishmen  relish  a  cheese,  the  more 
mouldy  and  crumbling  it  was,  the  more  it  was  to  his  taste.  A 
shell  of  an  old  nameless  temple,  or  the  cracked  walls  of  a 
broken-down  amphitheatre,  would  throw  him  into  raptures: 
and  he  took  more  delight  in  these  crusts  and  cheese  parings  of 
antiquity  than  in  the  best-conditioned  modern  edilice. 

He  had  taken  a  maggot  into  his  brain  at  one  time  to  hunt 
after  the  ancient  cities  of  the  Pelasgi  which  are  said  to  exist  to 
this  day  among  the  mountains  of  the  Abruzzi;  but  the  condi- 
tion of  which  is  strangely  unknown  to  the  antiquaries.  It  is 
said  that  he  had  made  a  great  many  valuable  notes  and  mem- 
orandums on  the  subject,  which  he  always  carried  about  with 
him,  either  for  the  purpose  of  frequent  reference,  or  because 
he  feared. the  precious  documents  might  fall  into  the  hands  of 
brother  antiquaries.  He  had  therefore  a  large  pocket  behind, 
in  which  he  carried  them,  banging  against  his  rear  as  he 
walked. 

Be  this  as  it  may ;  happening  to  pass  a  few  days  at  Terracina, 
in  the  course  of  his  researches,  he  one  day  mounted  the  rocky 
cliffs  which  overhang  the  town,  to  visit  the  castle  of  Theodoric. 
He  was  groping  about  these  ruins,  towards  the  hour  of  sunset, 
buried  in  his  reflections, — his  wits  no  doubt  wool-gathering 
among  the  Goths  and  Romans,  when  he  heard  footsteps  behind 
him. 

He  turned  and  beheld  five  or  six  young  fellows,  of  rough, 
saucy  demeanor,  clad  in  a  singular  manner,  half  peasant,  hall 
huntsman,  with  fusils  hi  their  hands.  Their  whole  appearance 
and  carriage  left  him  in  no  doubt  into  what  company  he  ha  1 
fallen. 

The  doctor  was  a  feeble  little  man,  poor  in  look  and  poorer 
in  purse.  He  had  but  little  money  in  his  pocket;  but  lie  had 
certain  valuables,  such  as  an  old  silver  watch,  thick  afl  a  tur- 
nip, with  figures  on  it  large  enough  for  a  clock,  and  a  set  of 
seals  at  the  end  of  a  st<  1  chain,  that  dangled  half  down  to  his 
knees;  all  which  \\<  recious  esteem,  beingfamily  reliques. 

He  had  also  a  seal  ring,  a  veritable  antique  intaglio,  that 
covered  half  his  knuckles;  but  what  he  most  valued  was,  the 


16fi 


TALES  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 


precious  treatise  on  the  Pelasgian  cities,  which  he  would  gladly 
have  given  all  the  money  in  his  pocket  to  have  had  safe  at  the 
bottom  of  his  trunk  in  Terracina. 

However  he  plucked  up  a  stout  heart;  at  least  as  stout  a 
heart  as  he  could,  seeing  that  he  was  but  a  puny  little  man  at 
the  best  of  times.    So  he  wished  the  hunters  a  "  buon  giorno. 
They  returned   his  salutation,   giving   the  old  gentleman  a 
sociable  slap  on  the  back  that  made  his  heart  leap  mto  his 

throat.  „  ■      .  ,.        .. 

They  fell  into  convesation,  and  walked  for  some  time  to- 
gether among  the  heights,  the  doctor  wishing  them  all  the 
while  at  the  bottom  of  the  crater  of  Vesuvius.  At  length  they 
came-  to  a  small  osteria  on  the  mountain,  where  they  proposed 
to  enter  and  have  a  cup  of  wine  together.  The  doctor  con- 
sented; though  he  would  as  soon  have  been  invited  to  drink 

hemlock.  ~. 

One  of  the  gang  remained  sentinel  at  the  door;  the  others 
swaggered  into  the  house;  stood  their  fusils  in  a  corner  of  the 
room-  and  each  drawing  a  pistol  or  stiletto  out  of  his  belt,  laid 
it   with  some  emphasis,  on  the  table.    They  now  called  lustily 
for  wine;  drew  benches  round  the  table,  and  hailing  the  doc- 
tor as  though  he  had  been  a  boon  companion  of  long  standing, 
insisted  upon  his  sitting  down  and  making  merry.     He  com- 
plied with  forced  grimace,  but  with  fear  and  trembling ;  sitting 
on  the  edge  of  his  bench ;  supping  down  heartburn  with  every 
drop  of  liquor;  eyeing  ruefully  the  black  muzzled  pistols,  and 
cold,  naked  stilettos.     They  pushed  the  bottle  bravely,  and 
plied  him  vigorously;  sang,  laughed,  told  excellent  stories  of 
robberies  and  combats,  and  the  little  doctor  was  fain  to  laugh 
at  these  cut-throat  pleasantries,  though  his  heart  was  dying 
away  at  the  very  bottom  of  his  bosom. 

By  their  own  account  they  were  young  men  from  the  vil- 
lages, who  had  recently  taken  up  this  line  of  life  m  the  mere 
wud  caprice  of  youth.  They  talked  of  their  exploits  as  a  sports- 
man talks  of  his  amusements.  To  shoot  down  a  traveller 
seemed  of  little  more  consequence  to  them  than  to  shoot  a  hare. 
They  spoke  with  rapture  of  the  glorious  roving  life  they  led; 
free  as  birds;  here  to-day,  gone  to-morrow ;  ranging' the  forests, 
climbing  the  rocks,  scouring  the  valleys;  the  world  their  own 
wherever  they  could  lay  hold  of  it;  full  purses,  mery  compan- 
ions- pretty  women. -The  little  antiquary  got  fuddled  with 
their  talk  and  their  wine,  for  they  did  not  spare  bumpers.  He 
half  forgot  his  fears,  his  seal  ring,  and  his  family  watch;  even 


THE  ADVENTURE  OF  THE   LITTLE  ANTIQUAR7     [(ft 

the  treatise  on  the  Pelasgian  ciws  which  was  warming  under 
Mm,  for  a  time  faded  from  his  memory,  in  the  glowing  picture 
which  they  drew.  He  declares  that  he  no  longer  wonders  at 
the  prevalence  of  this  robber  mania  among  the  mountains ;  for 
he  felt  at  the  time,  that  had  he  been  a  young  man  and  a  strong- 
man, and  had  there  been  no  danger  of  the  galleys  in  the  back- 
ground, he  should  have  been  half  tempted  himself  to  turn 
bandit. 

At  length  the  fearful  hour  of  separating  arrived.  The  doc- 
tor was  suddenly  called  to  himself  and  his  fears,  by  seeing  the 
robbers  resume  their  weapons.  He  now  quaked  for  his  valu- 
ables, and  above  all  for  his  antiquarian  treatise.  He  endeav- 
ored, however,  to  look  cool  and  unconcerned;  and  drew  from 
out  of  his  deep  pocket  a  long,  lank,  leathern  purse,  far  gone  in 
consumption,  at  the  bottom  of  which  a  few  coin  chinked  with 
the  trembling  of  his  hand. 

The  chief  of  the  party  observed  this  movement ;  and  laying 
his  hand  upon  the  antiquary's  shoulder—"  Harkee !  Signor  Dot- 
tore  ! "  said  he,  ' '  we  have  drank  together  as  friends  and  com- 
rades, let  us  part  as  such.  .  We  understand  you;  we  know  who 
and  what  you  are ;  for  we  know  who  every  body  is  that  sleeps 
at  Terracina,  or  that  puts  foot  upon  the  road.  You  are  a  rich 
man.  but  you  carry  all  your  wealth  in  your  head.  We  can't 
get  at  it,  and  we  should  not  know  what  to  do  with  it,  if  we 
could.  I  see  you  are  uneasy  about  your  ring ;  but  don't  worry 
your  mind ;  it  is  not  worth  taking ;  you  think  it  an  antique, 
but  it's  a  counterfeit— a  mere  sham." 

Here  the  doctor  would  have  put  in  a  word,  for  his  antiqua 
nan  pride  was  touched. 

"  Nay.  nay,"  continued  the  other,  "we've  no  time  to  dispute 
about  it.  Value  it  as  you  please.  Come,  you  arc  a  brave  little 
old  signor— one  more  cup  of  wine  and  we'll  pay  the  reck- 
oning. No  compliments— I  insist  on  it.  So — now  make  the 
best  of  your  way  back  to  Terracina ;  it's  growing  late— buono 
viaggio!— and  harkee,  take  care  how  you  wander  among  these 
mountains.'' 

They  shouldered  their  fusils,  sprang  gaily  up  the  rocks,  and 
the  little  doctor  hobbled  back  to  Terracina,  rejoicing  that  the 
robbers  had  let  his  seal  ring,  his  watch,  and  his  treatise  escape 
unmolested,  though  rather  nettled  that  they  should  have  pro- 
nounced his  veritable  intaglio  a  counterfeit. 

The  improwisatore  had  shown  many  symptoms  of  impa- 
tience during  this  recital.     He  saw  his  theme  in  danger  i .!'  being 


Itf8  TALE*  OF  A   TRAVELLER 

taken  out  of  his  hands  by  a  rival  story-teller,  which  to  an  able 
talker  is  always  a  serious  grievance ;  it  was  also  in  danger  of 
being  taken  away  by  a  Neapolitan,  and  that  was  still  more 
vexatious ;  as  the  members  of  the  different  Italian  states  have 
an  incessant  jealousy  of  each  other  in  all  things,  great  and  small. 
He  took  advantage  of  the  first  pause  of  the  Neapolitan  to  catch 
hold  again  of  the  thread  of  the  conversation. 

"As  I  was  saying,"  resumed  he,  "the  prevalence  of  these 
banditti  is  so  extensive;  their  power  so  combined  and  inter- 
woven with  other  ranks  of  society — " 

"  For  that  matter,"  said  the  Neapolitan,  "  I  have  heard  that 
your  government  has  had  some  understanding  with  these  gen- 
try, or  at  least  winked  at  them." 

"  My  government?"  said  the  Roman,  impatiently. 

"Aye— they  say  that  Cardinal  Gonsalvi—" 

"Hush!"  said  the  Roman,  holding  up  his  finger,  and  rolling 
his  large  eyes  about  the  room. 

"Nay— I  only  repeat  what  I  heard  commonly  rumored  in 
Rome,"  replied  the  other,  sturdily.  "It  was  whispered  that 
the  Cardinal  had  been  up  to  the  mountain,  and  had  an  inter- 
view with  some  of  the  chiefs.  And  I  have  been  told  that  when 
honest  people  have  been  kicking  their  heels  in  the  Cardinal's 
anti-chamber,  waiting  by  the  hour  for  admittance,  one  of  these 
stiletto-looking  fellows  has  elbowed  his  way  through  the  crowd, 
and  entered  without  ceremony  into  the  Cardinal's  presence. 

"I  know,"  replied  the  Roman,  "that  there  have  been  such 
reports ;  and  it  is  not  impossible  that  government  may  have 
made  use  of  these  men  at  particular  periods,  such  as  at  the 
time  of  your  abortive  revolution,  when  your  carbonari  were  so 
busy  with  their  machinations  all  over  the  country.  The  infor- 
mation that  men  like  these  could  collect,  who  were  familiar, 
not  merely  with  all  the  recesses  and  secret  places  of  the  moun- 
tains, but  also  with  all  the  dark  and  dangerous  recesses  of  so- 
ciety, and  knew  all  that  was  plotting  in  the  world  of  mischief; 
the  utility  of  such  instruments  in  the  hands  of  government  was 
too  obvious  to  be  overlooked,  and  Cardinal  Gonsalvi  as  a  politic 
statesman,  may,  perhaps,  have  made  use  of  them ;  for  it  is  well 
known  the  robbers,  with  all  their  atrocities,  are  respectful  to- 
wards the  church,  and  devout  in  their  religion." 

"Religion! — religion?"  echoed  the  Englishman. 

' '  Yes — religion !"  repeated  the  improwisatore.  ' '  Scarce  one 
of  them  but  will  cross  himself  and  say  his  prayers  when  he 
hears  in  his  mountain  fastness  the  matin  or  the  ave  maria  bells 


TEE  ADVENTURE  OF  THE   LITTLE  ANTIQUARY.   169 

sounding  from  the  valleys.  They  will  often  confess  themselves 
to  the  village  priests,  to  obtain  absolution;  and  occasionally 
visit  the  village  churches  to  pray  at  some  favorite  shrine.  I 
recollect  an  instance  in  point :  I  was  one  evening  in  the  village 
of  Frescati,  which  lies  below  the  mountains  of  Abruzzi.  The 
people,  as  usual  in  fine  evenings  in  our  Italian  towns  and  vil- 
lages, were  standing  about  in  groups  in  the  public  square,  con- 
versing and  amusing  themselves.  I  observed  a  tall,  muscular 
fellow,  wrapped  in  a  great  mantle,  passing  across  the  square, 
but  skulking  along  in  the  dark,  as  if  avoiding  notice.  The 
people,  too,  seemed  to  draw  back  as  he  passed.  It  was  whisp- 
pered  to  me  that  he  was  a  notorious  bandit." 

"But  why  was  he  not  immediately  seized?"  said  the  English- 
man. 

1 '  Because  it  was  nobody's  business ;  because  nobody  wished 
to  incur  the  vengeance  of  his  comrades ;  because  there  were 
not  sufficient  gens  cVarmes  near  to  insure  security  against  the 
numbers  of  desperadoes  he  might  have  at  hand ;  because  the 
gens  d'amnes  might  not  have  received  particular  instructions 
with  respect  to  him,  and  might  not  feel  disposed  to  engage  in 
the  hazardous  conflict  without  compulsion.  In  short,  I  might 
give  you  a  thousand  reasons,  rising  out  of  the  state  of  our  gov- 
ernment and  manners,  not  one  of  which  after  all  might  appear 
satisfactory. " 

The  Englishman  shrugged  his  shoulders  with  an  air  of  con- 
tempt. 

"I  have  been  told,''  added  the  Roman,  rather  quickly,  "that 
even  in  your  metropolis  of  London,  notorious  thieves,  well 
known  to  the  police  as  such,  walk  the  streets  at  noon-da y.  in 
search  of  their  prey,  and  are.not  molested  unless  caught  in  the 
very  act  of  robbery." 

The  Englishman  gave  another  shrug,  but  with  a  different 
expression. 

! *  Well,  sir,  I  fixed  my  eye  on  this  daring  wolf  thus  prowling 
through  the  fold,  and  saw  him  enter  a  church.  I  was  curious 
to  Avitness  his  devotions.  You  know  our  spacious,  magnificent 
churches.  The  one  in  which  he  entered  was  vast  and  shrouded 
in  the  dusk  of  evening.  At  the  extremity  of  the  long  aisles  a 
couple  of  tapers  feebly  glimmered  on  the  grand  altar.  In  one 
of  the  side  chapels  was  a  votive  candle  placed  before  the  image 
of  a  saint.  Before  this  image  the  robber  had  prostrated  him- 
self. His  mantle  partly  falling  off  from  his  shoulders  as  he 
knelt,  revealed  a  form  of  Herculean  strength ;  a  stiletto  and 


170  TALES  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

pistol  glittered  in  his  belt,  and  the  light  falling  on  his  counten- 
ance showed  features  not  unhandsome,  but  strongly  and  fiercely 
charactered.  As  he  prayed  he  became  vehemently  agitated ;  his 
lips  quivered;  sighs  and  murmurs,  almost  groans  burst  from 
him;  he  beat  his  breast  with  violence,  then  clasped  his  hands 
and  wrung  them  convulsively  as  he  extended  them  towards  the 
image.  Never  had  I  seen  such  a  terrific  picture  of  remorse. 
I  felt  fearful  of  being  discovered  by  him,  and  withdrew. 
Shortly  after  I  saw  him  issue  from  the  church  wrapped  in 
his  mantle ;  he  recrossed  the  square,  and  no  doubt  returned  to 
his  mountain  with  disburthened  conscience,  ready  to  incur  a 
fresh  arrear  of  crime.,, 

The  conversation  was  here  taken  up  by  two  other  travellers, 
recently  arrived,  Mr.  Hobbs  and  Mr.  Dobbs,  a  linen-draper 
and  a  green-grocer,  just  returning  from  a  tour  in  Greece  and 
the  Holy  Land :  and  who  were  full  of  the  story  of  Alderman 
Popkins.  They  were  astonished  that  the  robbers  should  dare 
to  molest  a  man  of  his  importance  on  'change ;  he  being  an  emi- 
nent dry-salter  of  Throgmorton  street,  and  a  magistrate  to 
boot. 

In  fact,  the  story  of  the  Popkins  family  was  but  too  true ;  it 
was  attested  by  too  many  present  to  be  for  a  moment  doubted ; 
and  from  the  contradictory  and  concordant  testimony  of  half 
a  score,  all  eager  to  relate  it,  the  company  were  enabled  to 
make  out  all  the  particulars. 


THE  ADVENTURE  OF  THE  POPKINS  FAMILY. 

It  was  but  a  few  days  before  that  the  carriage  of  Alderman 
Popkins  had  driven  up  to  the  inn  of  Terracina.  Those  who 
have  seen  an  English  family  carriage  on  \,he  continent,  must 
know  the  sensation  it  produces.  It  is  ar?  epitome  of  England ; 
a  little  morsel  of  the  old  island  rolling  about  the  world— every 
thing  so  compact,  so  snug,  so  finished  and  fitting.  The  wheels 
that  roll  on  patent  axles  without  rattling;  the  body  that  hangs 
so  well  on  its  springs,  yielding  to  every  motion,  yet  proof 
against  every  shock.  The  ruddy  faces  gaping  out  of  the  win- 
dows; sometimes  of  a  portly  old  citizen,  sometimes  of  a  vol- 
uminous dowager,  and  sometimes  of  a  fine  fresh  hoyden,  just 
from  boarding  school.    And  then  the  dickeys  loaded  with  well- 


THE  ADVENTURE  OF  THE  POPKINS   FAMILY.      L71 

dressed  servants,  beef -fed  ana  bluff;  looking  down  from  then 
heights  with  contempt  on  all  the  world  around ;  profoundly 
ignorant  of  the  country  and  the  people,  and  devoutly  certain 
that  every  thing  not  English  must  be  wrong. 

Such  was  the  carriage  of  Alderman  Popkins,  as  it  made  its 
appearance  at  Terracina.  The  courier  who  had  preceded  it,  to 
order  horses,  and  who  was  a  Neapolitan,  had  given  a  magnifi 
cent  account  of  the  riches  and  greatness  of  his  master,  blunder 
ing  with  all  an  Italian's  splendor  of  imagination  about  the  alder 
man's  titles  and  dignities;  the  host  had  added  his  usual  share 
of  exaggeration,  so  that  by  the  time  the  alderman  drove  up  to 
the  door,  he  was  Milor— Magniflco — Principe— the  Lord  knows 
what! 

The  alderman  was  advised  to  take  an  escort  to  Fondi  and 
Itri.  but  he  refused.  It  was  as  much  as  a  man's  life  was  worth, 
he  said,  to  stop  him  on  the  king's  highway ;  he  would  complain 
of  it  to  the  ambassador  at  Naples ;  he  would  make  a  national 
affair  of  it.  The  principezza  Popkins,  a  fresh,  motherly  dame, 
seemed  perfectly  secure  in  the  protection  of  her  husband,  so 
omnipotent  a  man  in  the  city.  The  signorini  Popkins,  two  fine 
bouncing  girls,  looked  to  their  brother  Tom,  who  had  taken 
lessons  in  boxing ;  and  as  to  the  dandy  himself,  he  was  sure  no 
scaramouch  of  an  Italian  robber  would  dare  to  meddle  with  an 
Englishman.  The  landlord  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  turned 
out  the  palms  of  his  hands  with  a  true  Italian  grimace,  and  the 
carriage  of  Milor  Popkins  rolled  on. 

They  passed  through  several  very  suspicious  places  without 
any  molestation.  The  Misses  Popkins,  who  were  very  roman- 
tic, and  had  learnt  to  draw  in  water  colors,  were  enchanted 
with  the  savage  scenery  around;  it  was  so  like  what  they  had 
read  in  Mrs.  Radcliffe's  romances,  they  should  like  of  all  things 
to  make  sketches.  At  length,  the  carriage  arrived  at  a  place 
where  the  road  wound  up  a  long  hill.  Mrs.  Popkins  had  sunk 
into  a  sleep ;  the  young  ladies  were  reading  the  last  works  of 
Sir  Walter  Scott  and  Lord  Byron,  and  the  dandy  was  hectoring 
the  postilions  from  the  coach  box.  The  Alderman  got  out,  as 
he  said,  to  stretch  Ins  legs  up  the  hill.  It  was  a  long  winding 
ascent,  and  obliged  him  every  now  and  then  to  stop  and  blow 
and  wipe  his  forehead  with  many  a  pish!  and  phew!  being 
rather  pursy  and  short  of  wind.  As  the  carriage,  however,  was 
far  behind  him,  and  toiling  slowly  under  the  weight  of  so  many 
well-stuffed  trunks  and  well-stuffed  travellers,  he  had  plenty  of 
time  to  walk  at  leisure. 


172  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

On  a  jutting  point  of  rock  that  overhung  the  road  nearly  at 
the  summit  of  the  hill,  just  where  the  route  began  again  to 
descend,  he  saw  a  solitary  man  seated,  who  appeared  to  be 
tending  goats.  Alderman  Popkins  was  one  of  your  shrewd 
travellers  that  always  like  to  be  picking  up  small  information 
along  the  road,  so  he  thought  he'd  just  scramble  up  to  the 
honest  man,  and  have  a  little  talk  with  him  by  way  of  learning 
the  news  and  getting  a  lesson  in  Italian.  As  he  drew  near  to 
the  peasant  he  did  not  half  like  his  looks.  He  was  partly  re- 
clining on  the  rocks  wrapped  in  the  usual  long  mantle,  which, 
with  his  slouched  hat,  only  left  a  part  of  a  swarthy  visage, 
with  a  keen  black  eye,  a  beetle  brow,  and  a  fierce  moustache  to 
be  seen.  He  had  whistled  several  times  to  his  dog  which  was 
roving  about  the  side  of  the  hill.  As  the  Alderman  approached 
he  rose  and  greeted  him.  When  standing  erect  he  seemed 
almost  gigantic,  at  least  in  the  eyes  of  Alderman  Popkins ;  who, 
however,  being  a  short  man,  might  be  deceived. 

The  latter  would  gladly  now  have  been  back  in  the  carriage, 
or  even  on  'change  in  London,  for  he  was  by  no  means  well 
pleased  with  his  company.  However,  he  determined  to  put  the 
best  face  on  matters,  and  was  beginning  a  conversation  about 
the  state  of  the  weather,  the  baddishness  of  the  crops,  and  the 
price  of  goats  in  that  part  of  the  country,  when  he  heard  a  vio- 
lent screaming.  He  ran  to  the  edge  of  the  rock,  and,  looking 
over,  saw  away  down  the  road  his  carriage  surrounded  by  rob- 
bers. One  held  down  the  fat  footman,  another  had  the  dandy 
by  his  starched  cravat,  with  a  pistol  to  his  head;  one  was  rum- 
maging a  portmanteau,  another  rummaging  the  principezza's 
pockets,  while  the  two  Misses  Popkins  were  screaming  from 
each  window  of  the  carriage,  and  their  waiting  maid  squalling 
from  the  dickey. 

Alderman  Popkins  felt  all  the  fury  of  the  parent  and  the 
magistrate  roused  within  him.  He  grasped  his  cane  and  was 
on  the  point  of  scrambling  down  the  rocks,  either  to  assault 
the  robbers  or  to  read  the  riot  act,  when  he  was  suddenly 
grasped  by  the  arm.  It  was  by  his  friend  the  goatherd,  whose 
cloak,  falling  partly  off,  discovered  a  belt  stuck  full  of  pistols 
and  stilettos.  In  short,  he  found  himself  in  the  clutches  of  the 
captain  of  the  band,  who  had  stationed  himself  on  the  rock  t<2 
look  out  for  travellers  and  to  give  notice  to  his  men. 

A  sad  ransacking  took  place.  Trunks  were  turned  inside 
out,  and  all  the  finery  and  the  frippery  of  the  Popkins  family 
scattered  about  the  road.     Such  a  chaos  of  Venice  beads  and 


THE  ADVENTUBE  OF  THE  FOPKINS  FAMILY.      173 

Roman  mosaics ;  and  Paris  bonnets  of  the  young  ladies,  min- 
gled with  the  alderman's  night-caps  and  lamb's  wool  stockings, 
and  the  dandy's  hair-brushes,  stays,  and  starched  cravats. 

The  gentlemen  were  eased  of  their  purses  and  their  watches ; 
the  ladies  of  their  jewels,  and  the  whole  party  were  on  the 
point  of  being  carried  up  into  the  mountain,  when  fortunately 
the  appearance  of  soldiery  at  a  distance  obliged  the  robbers  to 
make  off  with  the  spoils  they  had  secured,  and  leave  the  Pop- 
kins  family  to  gather  together  the  remnants  of  their  effects, 
and  make  the  best  of  their  way  to  Fondi. 

When  safe  arrived,  the  alderman  made  a  terrible  blustering 
at  the  inn ;  threatened  to  complain  to  the  ambassador  at  Naples, 
and  was  ready  to  shake  his  cane  at  the  whole  country.  The 
dandy  had  many  stories  to  tell  of  his  scuffles  with  the  brigands, 
who  overpowered  him  merely  by  numbers.  As  to  the  Misses 
Popkins,  they  were  quite  delighted  with  the  adventure,  and 
were  occupied  the  whole  evening  in  writing  it  in  their  journals. 
They  declared  the  captain  of  the  band  to  be  a  most  romantic- 
looking  man;  they  dared  to  say  some  unfortunate  lover,  or 
exiled  nobleman :  and  several  of  the  band  to  be  very  handsome 
young  men — "quite  picturesque !" 

"In  verity,"  said  mine  host  of  Terracina,  "they  say  the  cap- 
tain of  the  band  is  un  galant  uomo. " 

' '  A  gallant  man ! "  said  the  Englishman.  ' '  I'd  have  your  gal- 
lant man  hang'd  like  a  dog ! " 

"To  dare  to  meddle  with  Englishmen! "  said  Mr.  Hobbs. 

"And  such  a  family  as  the  Popkinses!"  said  Mr.  Dobbs. 

1 '  They  ought  to  come  upon  the  country  for  damages  I"  said 
Mr.  Hobbs. 

"Our  ambassador  should  make  a  complaint  to  the  govern- 
ment of  Naples,"  said  Mr.  Dobbs. 

"They  should  be  requested  to  drive  these  rascals  out  of  the 
country,"  said  Hobbs. 

"If  they  did  not,  we  should  declare  war  against  them!"  said 
Dobbs. 

The  Englishman  was  a  little  wearied  by  this  story,  and  by 
the  ultra  zeal  of  his  countrymen,  and  was  glad  when  a  sum- 
mons to  their  supper  relieved  him  from  a  crowd  of  travellers. 
He  walked  out  with  his  Venetian  friends  and  a  young  French- 
man of  an  interesting  demeanor,  who  had  become  sociable  with 
them  in  the  course  of  the  conversation.  They  directed  their 
steps  toward  the  sea,  which  was  lit  up  by  the  rising  moon. 
The  Venetian,  out  of  politeness,  left  his  beautiful  wife  to  be  es- 


174  TALES  OF  A    TRA  VELLER 

corted  by  fche  Englishman.  The  latter,  however,  either  from 
shyness  or  reserve,  did  not  avail  himself  of  the  civility,  but 
walked  on  without  offering  his  arm.  The  fair  Venetian,  with 
all  her  devotion  to  her  husband,  was  a  little  nettled  at  a  want 
of  gallantry  to  which  her  charms  had  rendered  her  unaccus- 
tomed, and  took  the  proffered  arm  of  the  Frenchman  with  a 
pretty  air  of  pique,  which,  however,  was  entirely  lost  upon  the 
oh  legmatic  delinquent. 

Not  far  distant  from  the  inn  they  came  to  where  there  was  a 
aody  of  soldiers  on  the  beach,  encircling  and  guarding  a  num- 
ber of  galley  slaves,  who  were  permitted  to  refresh  themselves 
in  the  evening  breeze  and  to  sport  and  roll  upon  the  sand. 

l'Itwas  difficult,"  the  Frenchman  observed,  "to  conceive  a 
more  frightful  mass  of  crime  than  wras  here  collected.  The 
parricide,  the  fratricide,  the  infanticide,  who  had  first  fled  from 
justice  and  turned  mountain  bandit,  and  then,  by  betraying  his 
brother  desperadoes,  had  bought  a  commutation  of  punishment, 
and  the  privilege  of  wallowing  on  the  shore  for  an  hour  a  day, 
with  this  wretched  crew  of  miscreants!" 

The  remark  of  the  Frenchman  had  a  strong  effect  upon  the 
company,  particularly  upon  the  Venetian  lady,  who  shuddered 
as  she  cast  a  timid  look  at  this  horde  of  wretches  at  their 
evening  relaxation.  "They  seemed,*1  she  said,  "like  so  many 
serpents,  wreathing  and  twisting  together. " 

The  Frenchman  now-  adverted  to  the  stories  they  had  been 
listening  to  at  the  inn,  adding,  that  if  they  had  any  further 
curiosity  on  the  subject,  he  could  recount  an  adventure  which 
happened  to  himself  among  the  robbers  and  which  might  give 
them  some  idea  of  the  habits  and  manners  of  those  beings. 
There  was  an  air  of  modesty  and  frankness  about  the  French- 
man which  had  gained  the  good- will  of  the  whole  party,  not 
even  excepting  the  Englishman.  They  all  gladly  accepted  his 
proposition ;  and  as  they  strolled  slowly  up  and  down  the  sea- 
shore, he  related  the  following  adventure. 


THE  PAINTER'S  ADVENTURE. 

I  AM  an  historical  painter  by  profession,  and  resided  for 
some  time  in  the  family  of  a  foreign  prince,  at  his  villa,  about 
fifteen  miles  from  Rome,  among  some  of  the  most  interesting 
scenery  of  Italy.     It  is  situated  on  the  heights  of  ancient  Tua- 


THE  PAINTERS  ADVENTURE.  17;, 

culum.  In  its  neighborhood  are  the  ruins  of  the  villas  of 
Cicero,  By] la.  Lucullus,  Rufinus,  and  other  illustrious  Romans, 
who  sought  refuge  here  occasionally,  from  their  toils,  in  the 
bosom  of  a  soft  and  luxurious  repose.  From  the  midst  of  de- 
lightful bowers,  refreshed  by  the  pure  mountain  breeze,  the 
eye  looks  over  a  romantic  landscape  full  of  poetical  and  histor- 
tssociatiohs.  The  Albanian  mountains,  Tivoli,  once  the 
favorite  residence  of  Horace  and  Maecenas ;  the  vast  deserted 
Campagna  with  the  Tiber  running  through  it,  and  St.  Peter's 
dome  swelling  in  the  midst,  the  monument— as  it  were,  over 
the  grave  of  ancient  Rome. 

I  assisted  the  prince  in  the  researches  he  was  making  among 
the  classic  ruins  of  his  vicinity.  His  exertions  were  highly 
successful.  Many  wrecks  of  admirable  statues  and  fragments 
of  exquisite  sculpture  were  dug  up;  monuments  of  the  taste 
and  magnificence  that  reigned  in  the  ancient  Tusculan  abodes. 
He  had  studded  his  villa  and  its  grounds  with  statues,  relievos, 
vases,  and  sarcophagi;  thus  retrieved  from  the  bosom  of  the 
earth. 

The  mode  of  life  pursued  at  the  villa  was  delightfully  serene, 
diversified  by  interesting  occupations  and  elegant  leisure. 
Every  one  passed  the  day  according  to  his  pleasure  or  occupa- 
tion ;  and  we  all  assembled  in  a  cheerful  dinner  party  at  sun- 
set. It  was  on  the  fourth  of  November,  a  beautiful  serene.day. 
that  we  had  assembled  in  the  saloon  at  the  sound  of  the  first 
dinner-bell.  The  family  were  surprised  at  the  absence  of  the 
prince's  confessor.  They  waited  for  him  in  vain,  and  at  length 
placed  themselves  at  table.  They  first  attributed  his  absence 
to  his  having  prolonged  his  customary  walk ;  and  the  first  part 
of  the  dinner  passed  without  any  uneasiness.  When  the  des- 
sert was  served,  however,  without  his  making  his  appearance, 
they  began  to  feel  anxious.  They  feared  he  might  have  been 
token  ill  in  some  alley  of  the  woods;  or.  that  he  might  have 
fallen  into  the  hands  of  robbers.  At  the  interval  of  a  small 
valley  rose  the  mountains  of  the  Abruzzi.  the  strong-hold  of 
banditti.  Indeed,  the  neighborhood  had,  for  some  time,  been 
infested  by  them ;  and  Barbone.  a  notorious  bandit  chief,  had 
often  been  met  prowling  about  the  solitudes  of  Tusculum.  The 
daring  enterprises  of  these  ruffians  were  well  known ;  the  ob- 
jects of  their  cupidity  or  vengeance  were  insecure  even  in 
palaces*  As  yet  they  had  respected  the  possessions  of  the 
prince;  but  the. idea  of  such  dangerous  spirits  hovering  about 
the  neighborhood  was  sufficient  to  occasion  alarm. 


176  TALES   OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

The  fears  of  the  company  increased  as  evening  closed  in. 
The  prince  ordered  out  forest  guards,  and  domestics  with  flam- 
beaux to  search  for  the  confessor.  They  had  not  departed  long, 
when  a  slight  noise  was  heard  in  the  corridor  of  the  ground 
floor.  The  family  were  dining  on  the  first  floor,  and  the  re- 
maining domestics  were  occupied  in  attendance.  There  was 
no  one  on  the  ground  floor  at  this  moment  but  the  house 
keeper,  the  laundress,  and  three  field  laborers,  who  were  rest 
ing  themselves  and  conversing  with  the  women. 

I  heard  the  noise  from  below,  and  presuming  it  to  be  occa- 
sioned by  the  return  of  the  absentee,  I  left  the  table,  and  has- 
tened down  stairs,  eager  to  gain  intelligence  that  might  relieve 
the  anxiety  of  the  prince  and  princess.  I  had  scarcely  reached 
the  last  step,  when  I  beheld  before  me  a  man  dressed  as  a  ban- 
dit ;  a  carbine  in  his  hand,  and  a  stiletto  and  pistols  in  his  belt. 
His  countenance  had  a  mingled  expression  of  ferocity  and 
trepidation.  He  sprang  upon  me,  and  exclaimed  exultingly, 
"Ecco  il  principe!" 

I  saw  at  once  into  what  hands  I  had  fallen,  but  endeavored 
to  summon  up  coolness  and  presence  of  mind.  A  glance  to- 
wards the  lower  end  of  the  corridor  showed  me  several  ruffians, 
clothed  and  armed  in  the  same  manner  with  the  one  who  hi  I 
seized  me.  They  were  guarding  the  two  females  and  the  field 
laborers.  The  robber,  who  held  me  firmly  by  the  collar,  de- 
manded repeatedly  whether  or  not  I  were  the  prince.  His 
object  evidently  was  to  carry  off  the  prince,  and  extort  an  im- 
mense ransom.  He  was  enraged  at  receiving  none  but  vague 
replies ;  for  I  felt  the  importance  of  misleading  him. 

A  sudden  thought  struck  me  how  I  might  extricate  myself 
from  his  clutches.  I  was  unarmed,  it  is  true,  but  I  was  vigor- 
ous. His  companions  were  at  a  distance.  By  a  sudden  exer- 
tion I  might  wrest  myself  from  him  and  spring  up  the  staircase, 
whither  he  would  not  dare  to  follow  me  singly.  The  idea  was 
put  in  execution  as  soon  as  conceived.  The  ruffian's  throat 
was  bare :  with  my  right  hand  I  seized  him  by  it,  just  between 
the  mastoides ;  with  my  left  hand  I  grasped  the  arm  which 
held  the  carbine.  The  suddenness  of  my  attack  took  him  com- 
pletely unawares ;  and  the  strangling '  nature  of  my  grasp 
paralyzed  him.  He  choked  and  faltered.  I  felt  his  hand  relax- 
ing its  hold,  and  was  on  the  point  of  jerking  myself  away  and 
darting  up  the  staircase  before  he  could  recover  himself,  when 
I  was  suddenly  seized  by  some  one  from  behind. 

I  had  to  let  go  my  grasp.     The  bandit,  once  more  released, 


THE  PAINTERS  ADVENTURE.  177 

fell  upon  me  with  fury,  and  gave  me  several  blows  with  the 
butt  end  of  his  carbine,  one  of  which  wounded  me  severely  in 
the  forehead,  and  covered  me  with  blood.  He  took  advantage 
of  my  being  stunned  to  rifle  me  of  my  watch  and  whatever 
Valuables  I  had  about  my  person. 

When  I  recovered  from  the  effects  of  the  blow,  I  heard  the 
voice  of  the  chief  of  the  banditti,  who  exclaimed  ' '  Quello  e  il 
principe,  siamo  contente,  audiamo  I"  (It  is  the  prince,  enough, 
let  us  be  off.)  The  band  immediately  closed  round  me  and 
dragged  me  out  of  the  palace,  bearing  off  the  three  laborers 
likewise. 

I  had  no  hat  on,  and  the  blood  was  flowing  from  my  wound , 
I  managed  to  staunch  it,  however,  with  my  pocket-handker- 
chief, which  I  bound  round  my  forehead.  The  captain  of  the 
band  conducted  me  in  triumph,  supposing  me  to  be  the  prince. 
We  had  gone  some  distance  before  he  learnt  his  mistake  from 
one  of  the  laborers.  His  rage  was  terrible.  It  was  too  late  to 
return  to  the  villa  and  endeavor  to  retrieve  his  error,  for  by 
this  time  the  alarm  must  have  been  given,  and  every  one  in 
arms.  He  darted  at  me  a  furious  look ;  swore  I  had  deceived 
him,  and  caused  him  to  miss  his  fortune ;  and  told  me  to  pre- 
pare for  death.  The  rest  of  the  robbers  were  equally  furious. 
I  saw  their  hands  upon  their  poinards ;  and  I  knew  that  death 
was  seldom  an  empty  menace  with  these  ruffians. 

The  laborers  saw  the  peril  into  which  their  information  had 
betrayed  me,  and  eagerly  assured  the  captain  that  I  was  a 
man  for  whom  the  prince  would  pay  a  great  ransom.  This 
produced  a  pause.  For  my  part,  I  cannot  say  that  I  had  been 
much  dismayed  by  their  menaces.  I  mean  not  to  make  any 
boast  of  courage ;  but  I  have  been  so  schooled  to  hardship  dur- 
ing the  late  revolutions,  and  have  beheld  death  around  me  in 
so  many  perilous  and  disastrous  scenes  that  I  have  become,  in 
some  measure  callous  to  its  terrors.  The  frequent  hazard  or 
life  makes  a  man  at  length  as  reckless  of  it  as  a  gambler  of  hi: 
money.  To  their  threat  of  death,  I  replied:  uThat  the  sooner 
it  was  executed,  the  better."  This  reply  seemed  to  astonish 
the  captain,  and  the  prospect  of  ransom  held  out  by  the  laborers, 
had,  no  doubt,  a  still  greater  effect  on  him.  He  considered 
for  a  moment;  assumed  a  calmer  manner,  and  made  a  sign 
his  companions,  who  had  remained  waiting  for  my  death  war 
rant.  "Forward"  said  he,  "  we  will  see  about  this  matter  by 
and  bye." 

We  descended  rapidly  towards  the  road  of  la  Molara,  which 


178  TALES  OF  A    rn\YELLER. 

leads  to  Rocca  Priori.  In  the  midst  of  this  road  is  a  solitary 
inn.  The  captain  ordered  the  troop  to  halt  at  the  distance  of  a 
pistol  shot  from  it ;  and  enjoined  profound  silence.  He  then 
approached  the  threshold  alone  with  noiseless  steps.  He 
examined  the  outside  of  the  door  very  narrowly,  and  then 
returning  precipitately,  made  a  sign  for  the  troop  to  continue 
its  march  in  silence.  It  has  since  been  ascertained  that  this 
me  of  those  infamous  inns  which  are  the  secret  resorts  o! 
banditti.  The  innkeeper  had  an  understanding  with  the  cap- 
tain, as  lie  most  probably  had  with  the  chiefs  of  the  different 
bands.  When  any  of  the  patroles  and  gens  d'armes  were 
quartered  at  his  house,  the  brigands  were  warned  of  it  by  a 
preconcerted  signal  on  the  door;  when  there  was  no  such 
signal,  they  might  enter  with  safety  and  be  sure  of  welcome. 
Many  an  isolated  inn  among  the  lonely  parts  of  the  Roman 
territories,  and  especially  on  the  skirts  of  the  mountains,  have 
the  same  dangerous  and  suspicious  character.  They  are 
places  where  the  banditti  gather  information ;  where  they  con- 
cert their  plans,  and  where  the  unwary  traveller,  remote  from 
hearing  or  assistance,  is  sometimes  betrayed  to  the  stiletto  of 
the  midnight  murderer. 

After  pursuing  our  road  a  little  farther,  we  struck  off  towards 
the  woody  mountains  which  envelope  Rocca  Priori.  Our 
march  was  long  and  painful,  with  many  circuits  and  windings ; 
at  length  we  clambered  a  steep  ascent,  covered  with  a  thick 
forest,  and  when  we  had  reached  the  centre,  I  was  told  to  seat 
myself  on  the  earth.  No  sooner  had  I  done  so,  than  at  a  sign 
from  their  chief,  the  robbers  surrounded  me,  and  spreading 
their  great  cloaks  from  one  to  the  other,  formed  a  kind  of 
pavilion  of  mantles,  to  which  their  bodies  might  be  said  to 
seem  as  columns.  The  captain  then  struck  a  light,  and  a  flam- 
beau was  lit  immediately.  The  mantles  were  extended  to 
prevent  the  light  of  the  flambeau  from  being  seen  through  the 
forest.  Anxious  as  was  my  situation,  I  could  not  look  round 
upon  this  screen  of  dusky  drapery,  relieved  by  the  bright 
colors  of  the  robbers1  under-dresses,  the  gleaming  of  their 
weapons,  and  the  variety  of  strong-marked  countenances,  lit 
up  by  the  flambeau,  without  admiring  the  picturesque  effect  oi 
the  scene.    It  was  quite  theatrical. 

The  captain  now  held  an  ink-horn,  and  giving  me  pen  and 
paper,  ordered  me  to  write  what  he  should  dictate.  I  obeyed, 
it  was  a  demand,  couched  in  the  style  of  robber  eloquence, 
"that  the  prince  should  send  three  thousand  dollars  for  my  ran 


THE  PAINTERS  A  '  HE.  I7:» 

som,  or  that  my  death  should  be  the  consequence  of  a  re- 
fusal." 

I  knew  enough  of  the  desperate  character  of  these  beings  to 
feel  assured  this  was  not  an  idle  menace.  Their  only  mode  of 
insuring  attention  to  their  demands,  is  to  make  the  infliction 
of  the  penalty  inevitable.  I  saw  at  once,  however,  that  the 
demand  was  preposterous,  and  made  in  improper  language. 

I  told  the  captain  so,  and  assured  him,  that  so  extrava- 
gant a  sum  would  never  be  granted;  that  I  was  neither 
friend  or  relative  of  the  prince,  but  a  mere  artist,  employed  to 
execute  certain  paintings.  That  I  had  nothing  to  offer  as  a 
ransom  but  the  price  of  my  labors ;  if  this  were  not  sufficient, 
my  life  was  at  their  disposal :  it  was  a  thing  on  which  I  sat  but 
little  value." 

I  was  the  more  hardy  in  my  reply,  because  I  saw  that  coolness 
and  hardihood  had  an  effect  upon  the  robbers.  It  is  true,  as  I 
finished  speaking  the  captain  laid  his  hand  upon  his  stiletto, 
but  he  restrained  himself,  and  snatching  the  letter,  folded  it, 
and  ordered  me,  in  a  peremptory  tone,  to  address  it  to  the 
prince.  He  then  despatched  one  of  the  laborers  with  it  to 
Tuseulum,  who  promised  to  return  with  all  possible  speed. 

The  robbers  now  prepared  themselves  for  sleep,  and  I  was 
told  that  I  might  do  the  same.  They  spread  their  great  cloaks 
on  the  ground,  and  lay  down  around  me.  One  was  stationed 
at  a  little  distance  to  keep  watch,  and  was  relieved  every  two 
hours.  The  strangeness  and  wildness  of  this  mountain  bivouac, 
among  lawless  beings  whose  hands  seemed  ever  ready  to  grasp 
the  stiletto,  and  with  whom  life  was  so  trivial  and  insecure, 
was  enough  to  banish  repose.  The  coldness  of  the  earth  and 
of  the  dew,  however,  had  a  still  greater  effect  than  mental 
causes  in  disturbing  my  rest.  The  airs  wafted  to  these  moun- 
tains from  the  distant  Mediterranean  diffused  a  great  chilliness 
as  the  night  advanced.  An  expedient  suggested  itself.  I 
called  one  of  my  fellow  prisoners,  the  laborers,  and  made  him 
he  down  beside  me.  Whenever  one  of  my  limbs  became  chilled 
I  approached  it  to  the  robust  limb  of  my  neighbor,  and  bor- 
rowed some  of  his  warmth.  In  this  way  I  was  able  to  obtain  a 
little  sleep. 

Day  at  length  dawned,  and  I  was  roused  from  my  slumber 
by  the  voice  of  the  chieftain.  He  desired  me  to  rise  and  follow 
him.  I  obeyed.  On  considering  Ins  physiognomy  attentively, 
it  appeared  a  little  softened.  He  even  assisted  me  in  scramb* 
lmg  up  the  steep  forest  among  rocks  and  brambles.     Habit  had 


180  TALS8  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

made  him  a  vigorous  mountaineer ;  out  I  found  it  excessively 
toilsome  to  climb  those  rugged  heights.  We  arrived  at  length 
at  the  summit  of  the  mountain. 

Here  it  was  that  I  felt  all  the  enthusiasm  of  my  art  suddenly 
awakened ;  and  I  forgot,  in  an  instant,  all  perils  and  fatigues 
at  this  magnificent  view  of  the  sunrise  in  the  midst  of  the 
mountains  of  Abruzzi.  It  was  on  these  heights  that  Hannibal 
first  pitched  his  camp,  and  pointed  out  Rome  to  his  followers. 
The  eye  embraces  a  vast  extent  of  country.  The  minor  height 
of  Tusculum,  with  its  villas,  and  its  sacred  ruins,  lie  below; 
the  Sabine  hills  and  the  Albanian  mountains  stretch  on  either 
hand,  and  beyond  Tusculum  and  Frescati  spreads  out  the 
immense  Campagna,  with  its  line  of  tombs,  and  here  and  there 
a  broken  aqueduct  stretching  across  it,  and  the  towers  and 
domes  of  the  eternal  city  in  the  midst. 

Fancy  this  scene  lit  up  by  the  glories  of  a  rising  sun,  and 
bursting  upon  my  sight,  as  I  looked  forth  from  among  the 
majestic  forests  of  the  Abruzzi.  Fancy,  too,  the  savage  fore- 
ground, made  still  more  savage  by  groups  of  the  banditti, 
armed  and  dressed  in  their  wild,  picturesque  manner,  and  you 
will  not  wonder  that  the  enthusiasm  of  a  painter  for  a  moment 
overpowered  all  his  other  feelings. 

The  banditti  were  astonished  at  my  admiration  of  a  scene 
which  familiarity  had  made  so  common  in  their  eyes.  I  took 
advantage  of  their  halting  at  this  spot,  drew  forth  a  quire  of 
drawing-paper,  and  began  to  sketch  the  features  of  the  land- 
scape. The  height,  on  which  I  was  seated,  was  wild  and 
solitary,  separated  from  the  ridge  of  Tusculum  by  a  valley 
nearly  three  miles  wide;  though  the  distance  appeared  less 
from  the  purity  of  the  atmosphere.  This  height  was  one  of  the 
favorite  retreats  of  the  banditti,  commanding  a  look-out  over 
the  country;  while,  at  the  same  time,  it  was  covered  with 
forests,  and  distant  from  the  populous  haunts  of  men. 

While  I  was  sketching,  my  attention  was  called  off  for  a 
moment  by  the  cries  of  birds  and  the  bleatings  of  sheep.  I 
looked  around,  but  could  see  nothing  of  the  animals  that, 
uttered  them.  They  were  repeated,  and  appeared  to  come 
from  the  summits  of  the  trees.  On  looking  more  narrowly,  I 
perceived  six  of  the  robbers  perched  on  the  tops  of  oaks,  which 
grew^  on  the.breezy  crest  of  the  mountain,  and  commanded  an 
uninterrupted  prospect.  From  hence  they  were  keeping  a 
look-out,  like  so  many  vultures;  casting  their  eyes  into  th& 
depths  of  the  valley  below  us;  communicating  with  each  other 


THE  PAINTERS  ADVEMIUI'.  \>\ 

by  signs,  or  holding  discourse  in  sounds,  which  might  be  mis- 
taken by  the  wayfarer  for  the  cries  of  hawks  and  crows,  or 
the  bleating  of  the  mountain  flocks.  After  they  had  recon- 
noitred the  neighborhood,  and  finished  their  singular  discourse, 
they  descended  from  their  airy  perch,  and  returned  to  their 
prisoners.  The  captain  posted  three  of  them  at  three  naked 
sides  of  the  mountain,  while  he  remained  to  guard  us  with 
what  appeared  his  most  trusty  companion. 

I  had  my  book  of  sketches  in  my  hand ;  he  requested  to  see 
it,  and  after  having  run  his  eye  over  it,  expressed  himself  con- 
vinced of  the  truth  of  my  assertion,  that  I  was  a  painter.  1 
thought  I  saw  a  gleam  of  good  feeling  dawning  in  Mm,  and 
determined  to  avail  myself  of  it.  I  knew  that  the  worst  of 
men  have  their  good  points  and  their  accessible  sides,  if  one 
would  but  study  them  carefully.  Indeed,  there  is  a  singular 
mixture  in  the  character  of  the  Italian  robber.  With  reckless 
ferodty,  he  often  mingles  traits  of  kindness  and  good  humor. 
He  is  often  not  radically  bad,  but  driven  to  his  course  of  life 
by  some  unpremeditated  crime,  the  effect  of  those  sudden 
bursts  of  passion  to  which  the  Italian  temperament  is  prone. 
This  has  compelled  him  to  take  to  the  mountains,  or,  as  it  is 
technically  termed  among  them,  4 '  andare  in  Campagna. "  He 
has  become  a  robber  by  profession;  but  like  a  soldier,  when 
not  in  action,  he  can  lay  aside  his  weapon  and  his  fierceness, 
and  become  like  other  men. 

I  took  occasion  from  the  observations  of  the  captain  on  my 
sketchings,  to  fall  into  conversation  with  him.  I  found  him 
sociable  and  communicative.  By  degrees  I  became  completely 
at  my  ease  with  him.  I  had  fancied  I  perceived  about  him  a 
degree  of  self-love,  which  I  determined  to  make  use  of.  I 
assumed  an  air  of  careless  frankness,  and  told  him  that,  as 
artist.  I  pretended  to  the  power  of  judging  of  the  physiognomy ; 
that  I  thought  I  perceived  something  in  his  features  and  de- 
meanor which  announced  him  worthy  of  higher  fortunes. 
That  lie  was  not  formed  to  exercise  the  profession  to  which  he 
had  abandoned  himself;  that  he  had  talents  and  qualities  fitted 
for  a  nobler  sphere  of  action ;  that  he  had  but  to  change  his 
course  of  life,  and  in  a  legitimate  career,  the  same  courage  and 
endowments  which  now  made  him  an  object  of  terror,  would 
ensure  him  the  applause  and  admiration  of  society. 

I  had  not  mistaken  my  man.  My  discourse  both  touched 
and  excited  him.  He  seized  my  hand,  pressed  it,  and  replied 
with  strong  emotion,   "You  have  guessed  the  truth ;  you  have 


TALSS  OF  A    TRA  YELLIH. 

judged  me  rightly.'1  He  remained  for  a  moment  silent;  then 
a  kind  of  effort  he  resumed.  "I  will  tell  you  some  par- 
ticulars of  my  life,  and  you  will  perceive  that  it  was  the 
oppression  of  others,  rather  than  my  own  crimes,  that  drove 
me  to  the  mountains.  I  sought  to  serve  my  fellow-men,  and 
they  have  persecuted  me  from  among  them."  We  seated  our 
selves  on  the  grass,  and  the  rohber  gave  me  the  following 
anecdotes  of  Ins  history. 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  BANDIT  CHIEFTAIN. 

I  am  a  native  of  the  village  of  Prossedi.  My  father  was  easy 
enough  in  circumstances,  and  we  lived  peaceably  and  inde 
pendently,  cultivating  our  fields.  All  went  on  well  with  us 
until  a  new  chief  of  the  sbirri  was  sent  to  our  village  to  take 
command  of  the  police.  He  was  an  arbitrary  fellow,  prying 
into  every  thing,  and  practising  all  sorts  of  vexations  and 
oppressions  in  the  discharge  of  his  office. 

I  was  at  that  time  eighteen  years  of  age,  and  had  a  natural 
love  of  justice  and  good  neighborhood.  I  had  also  a  little 
education,  and  knew  something  of  history,  so  as  to  be  able  to 
judge  a  little  of  men  and  their  actions.  Ah  this  inspired  me 
with  hatred  for  this  paltry  despot.  My  own  family,  also, 
became  the  object  of  his  suspicion  or  dislike,  and  felt  more 
than  once  the  arbitrary  abuse  of  his  power.  These  things 
worked  together  on  my  mind,  and  I  gasped  after  vengeance. 
My  character  was  always  ardent  and  energetic;  and  acted 
upon  by  my  love  of  justice,  determined  me  by  one  blow  to  rid 
the  country  of  the  tyrant. 

Full  of  my  project  I  rose  one  morning  before  peep  of  day, 
and  concealing  a  stiletto  under  my  waistcoat — here  you  see  it ! 
— (and  he  drew  forth  a  long  keen  poniard) — I  lay  in  wait  for 
him  in  the  outskirts  of  the  village.  I  knew  all  his  haunts,  and 
his  habit  of  making  his  rounds  and  prowling  about  like  a  wolf, 
in  the  gray  of  the  morning ;  at  length  I  met  him  and  attacked 
him  with  fury.  He  was  armed,  but  I  took  him  unawares,  and 
was  full  of  youth  and  vigor.  I  gave  him  repeated  blows  to 
make  sure  work,  and  laid  him  lifeless  at  my  feet. 

When  I  was  satisfied  that  I  had  done  for  him,  I  returned 
with  all  haste  to  the  village,  but  had  the  ill-luck  to  meet  two  of 


THE  STOBY   OF  THE  BANDIT  CHIEFTAIN,         188 

the  sbirri  as  I  entered  it.  They  accosted  me  and  asked  if  I  had 
seen  their  chief.  I  assumed  an  air  of  tranquillity,  and  told 
them  I  had  not.  They  continued  on  their  way,  and,  within  a 
lcw  hours,  brought  hack  the  dead  body  to  Prossedi.  Their 
suspicions  of  me  being  already  awakened,  I  was  arrested  and 
thrown  into  prison.  Here  I  lay  several  weeks,  when  the 
prince,  who  was  Seigneur  of  Prossedi,  directed  judicial  pro- 
ceedings against  me.  I  was  brought  to  trial,  and  a  witness 
was  produced  who  pretended  to  have  seen  me  not  far  from  the 
bleeding  body,  and  flying  with  precipitation,  so  I  was  con- 
demned to  the  galleys  for  thirty  years. 

"  Curse  on  such  laws,"  vociferated  the  bandit,  foaming  with 
rage ;  ' '  curse  on  such  a  government,  and  ten  thousand  curses 
on  the  prince  who  caused  me  to  be  adjudged  so  rigorously, 
while  so  many  other  Roman  princes  harbor  and  protect  assas- 
sins a  thousand  times  more  culpable.  What  had  I  done  but 
what  was  inspired  by  a  love  of  justice  and  my  country?  Why 
was  my  act  more  culpable  than  that  of  Brutus,  when  he  sacri- 
ficed Caesar  to  the  cause  of  liberty  and  justice  ?" 

There  wras  something  at  once  both  lofty  and  ludicrous  in  the 
rhapsody  of  this  robber  chief,  thus  associating  himself  with 
one  of  the  great  names  of  antiquity.  It  showed,  however,  that 
he  had  at  least  the  merit  of  knowing  the  remarkable  facts  in 
the  history  of  his  country.  He  became  more  calm,  and  re- 
sumed his  narrative. 

I  was  conducted  to  Civita  Vecchia  in  fetters.  My  heart  was 
burning  with  rage.  I  had  been  married  scarce  six  months  to  a 
woman  whom  I  passionately  loved,  and  who  was  pregnant. 
My  family  was  in  despair.  For  a  long  time  I  made  unsuccess- 
ful efforts  to  break  my  chain.  At  length  I  found  a  morsel  of 
'on  which  I  hid  carefully,  endeavored  with  a  pointed  flint  to 
fashion  it  into  a  kind  of  file.  I  occupied  myself  in  this  work 
during  the  night-time,  and  when  it  was  finished,  I  made  out, 

[iter  a  long  time,  to  sever  one  of  the  rings  of  my  chain.     My 

ight  was  successful. 

I  wandered  for  several  weeks  in  the  mountains  which  sur- 
round Prossedi,  and  found  means  to  inform  my  wife  of  the 
place  where  I  was  concealed.  She  came  often  to  see  me.  1  had 
determined  to  put  myself  at  the  head  of  an  armed  band.  She 
endeavored  for  a  long  time  to  dissuade  me;  but  finding  my 
resolution  fixed,  she  at  length  united  in  my  project  of  ven- 
geance, and  brought  me.  herself,  my  poniard. 

By  her  means  I  communicated  with  several  brave  feU< 


184  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

the  neighboring  villages,  who  I  knew  to  be  ready  to  take  to 
the  mountains,  and  only  panting  for  an  opportunity  to  exercise 
their  daring  spirits.  We  soon  formed  a  combination,  pro- 
cured arms,  and  we  have  had  ample  opportunities  of  reveng- 
ing ourselves  for  the  wrongs  and  injuries  which  most  of  us 
have  suffered.  Every  thing  has  succeeded  with  us  imtil  now, 
and  had  it  not  been  for  our  blunder  in  mistaking  you  for  the 
prince,  our  fortunes  would  have  been  made. 

Here  the  robber  concluded  his  story.  He  had  talked  himself 
into  companionship,  and  assured  me  ho  no  longer  bore  me  any 
grudgo  for  the  error  of  which  I  had  been  the  innocent  cause. 
He  even  professed  a  kindness  for  me,  and  wished  me  to  remain 
some  time  with  them.  He  promised  to  give  me  a  sight  of  cer- 
tain grottos  which  they  occupied  beyond  Villetri,  and  waither 
they  resort. m1  during  the  intervals  of  their  expeditions.  He 
assured  me  that  they  led  a  jovial  life  there;  had  plenty  of  good 
cheer;  slept  on  beds  of  moss,  and  were  waited  upon  by  young 
and  beautiful  females,  whom  I  might  take  for  models. 

I  confess  I  felt  my  curiosity  roused  by  his  descriptions  of 
these  grottos  and  their  inhabitants:  they  realized  those  scenes 
in  robber-story  which  I  had  always  looked  upon  as  mere  crea- 
tions of  the  fancy.  I  should  gladly  have  accepted  his  invita- 
tion, and  paid  a  visit  to  those  caverns,  could  I  have  felt  more 
secure  in  my  company. 

I  began  to  find  my  situation  less  painful.  I  had  evidently 
propitiated  the  good-will  of  the  chieftain,  and  hoped  that  he 
might  release  me  for  a  moderate  ransom.  A  new  alarm,  how- 
ever, awaited  me.  While  the  captain  was  looking  out  with  im- 
patience for  the  return  of  the  messenger  who  had  been  sent  to 
the  prince,  the  sentinel  who  had  been  posted  on  the  side  of  the 
mountain  facing  the  plain  of  la  Molara,  came  running  towards 
us  with  precipitation.  "We  are  betrayed!"  exclaimed  he. 
"  The  police  of  Frescati  are  after  us.  A  party  of  carabmiers 
have  just  stopped  at  the  inn  below  the  mountain."  Then  lay- 
ing his  hand  on  his  stiletto,  he  swore,  with  a  terrible  oath,  that 
if  they  made  the  least  movement  towards  the  mountains,  my 
life  and  the  lives  of  my  fellow-prisoners  should  answer  for  it. 

The  chieftain  resumed  all  his  ferocity  of  demeanor,  and 
approved  of  what  his  companion  said;  but  when  the  latter  had 
returned  to  his  post,  he  turned  to  me  with  a  softened  air:  '  I 
must  act  as  chief,"  said  he,  "and  humor  my  dangerous  sub- 
alterns.    It  is  a  law  with  us  to  kill  our  prisoners  rather  than 


Till-:  STOUT  OF  TUB  BANDIT  CHIEFTAIN.         185 

suffer  them  to  be  rescued ;  but  do  not  '  jq  alarmed.  In  case  we 
are  surprised  keep  by  me ;  fly  with  us,  and  I  will  consider  my- 
self responsible  for  your  life." 

There  was  nothing  very  consolatory  in  this  arrangement, 
which  would  have  placed  me  between  two  dangers;  I  scarcely 
knew,  in  case  of  flight,  which  I  should  have  most  to  appre- 
hend from,  the  carbines  of  the  pursuers,  or  the  stilettos  of  the 
pursued.  I  remained  silent,  however,  and  endeavored  to  main- 
tain a  look  of  tranquillity. 

For  an  hour  was  I  kept  in  this  state  of  peril  and  anxiety. 
The  robbers,  crouching  among  their  leafy  coverts,  kept  an 
eagle  watch  upon  the  carabiuiers  below,  as  they  loitered  about 
the  inn ;  sometimes  lolling  about  the  portal ;  sometimes  disap- 
pearing for  several  minutes,  then  sallying  out,  examining  their 
weapons,  pointing  in  different  directions  and  apparently  ask- 
ing questions  about  the  neighborhood;  not  a  movement  or 
gesture  was  last  upon  the  keen  eyes  of  the  brigands.  At 
length  we  were  relieved  from  our  apprehensions.  The  cara- 
biniers  having  finished  their  refreshment,  seized  their  arms, 
continued  along  the  valley  towards  the  great  road,  and  gradu- 
ally left  the  mountain  behind  them.  ''I  felt  almost  certain," 
said  the  chief,  ' '  that  they.eould  not  be  sent  after  us.  They 
know  too  well  how  prisoners  have  fared  in  our  hands  on  simi- 
lar occasions.  Our  laws  in  this  respect  are  inflexible,  and  are 
necessary  for  our  safety.  If  we  once  flinched  from  them,  there 
would  no  longer  be  such  thing  as  a  ransom  to  be  procured." 

There  were  no  signs  yet  of  the  messenger's  return.  I  was 
preparing  to  resume  mv  sketching,  when  the  captain  drew  a 
quire  of  paper  from  his  knapsack — ''Come,"  said  he,  laughing, 
' '  you  are  a  painter ;  take  my  likeness.  The  leaves  of  your 
portfolio  are  small;  draw  it  on  this."  I  gladly  consented,  for 
it  was  a  study  that  seldom  presents  itself  to  a  painter.  I  red  >1 
looted  that  Salvator  Rosa  in  his  youth  had  voluntarily  so- 
journed for  a  time  among  the  banditti  of  Calabria,  and  had 
filled  his  mind  with  the  savage  scenery  and  savage  associates 
by  which*  he  was  surrounded.  I  seized  my  pencil  with  enthu- 
siasm at  the  thought.  I  found  the  captain  the  most  docile  of 
subjects,  and  after  various  shifting  of  positions,  I  placed  him 
m  an  attitude  to  my  mind. 

Picture  to  yourself  a  stern,  muscular  figure,  in  fanciful 
bandit  costume,  with  pistols  and  poniards  in  belt,  his  brawny 
neck  bare,  a  handkerchief  loosely  thrown  around  it,  and  the 
two  ends  in  front  strung  with  rings  of  all  kinds,  the  spoils  of 


J36  TALES   OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

travellers;  reliques  and  medals  hung  on  his  breast;  his  Ut 

decorated  with  various-colored  ribbands;  his  vest  and  short 
breeches  of  bright  colors  and  finely  embroidered ;  hislep:s  in 
buskins  or  leggins.  Fancy  him  on  a  mountain  height,  among 
wild  rocks  and  rugged  oaks,  leaning  on  his  carbine  as  if  medi 
tating  some  exploit,  while  far  below  are  beheld  villages  and 
villas,  the  scenes  of  his  maraudings,  with  the  wide  Campagns 
dimly  extending  in  the  distance. 

The  robber  was  pleased  with  the  sketch,  and  seemed  to  ad 
mire  himself  upon  paper.  I  had  scarcely  finished,  when  the 
Laborer  arrived  who  had  been  sent  for  my  ransom.  He  had 
reached  Tusculum  two  hours  after  midnight.  He  brought  me 
a  letter  from  the  prince,  who  was  in  bed  at  the  time  of  his 
arrival.  As  I  had  predicted,  he  treated  the  demand  as  extrava- 
gant, but  offered  five  hundred  dollars  for  my  ransom.  Having 
no  money  by  him  at  the  moment,  he  had  sent  a  note  for  the 
amount,  payable  to  whomever  should  conduct  me  safe  and 
sound  to  Rome.  I  presented  the  note  of  hand  to  the  chieftain ; 
he  received  it  with  a  shrug.  "  Of  what  use  are  notes  of  hand 
to  us?"  said  he,  "who  can  we  send  with  you  to  Rome  to  re- 
ceive  it.'  Ws  are  all  marked  men.  known  and  described  at 
every  gate  and  military  post,  and  village  church-door.  No,  we 
must  have  gold  and  silver;  let  the  sum  be  paid  in  cash  and  you 
shall  be  restored  to  liberty." 

The  captain  again  placed  a  sheet  of  paper  before  me  to  com- 
municate his  determination  to  the  prin  ce.  When  I  had  finished 
the  letter  and  took  the  she'et  from  the  quire,  I  found  on  the 
opposite  side  of  it  the  portrait  which  I  had  just  been  tracing.  I 
was  about  to  tear  it  off  and  give  it  to  the  chief. 

"  Hold,"  said  he,  "let  it  go  to  Rome;  let  them  see  what  kind 
of  looking  fellow  I  am.  Perhaps  the  prince  and  his  friends 
may  form  as  good  an  opinion  of  me  from  my  face  as  you  have 

done." 

This  was  said  sportively,  yet  it  was  evident  there  was  vanity 
lurking  at  the  bottom.  Even  this  wary,  distrustful  chief  ot 
banditti  forgot  for  a  moment  his  usual  foresight  and  precaution 
in  the  common  wish  to  be  admired.  He  never  reflected  what 
use  might  be  made  of  this  portrait  in  his  pursuit  and  convic- 
tion. _ 

The  letter  was  folded  and  directed,  and  the  messenger  de- 
parted again  for  Tusculum.  It  was  now  eleven  o'clock  m  the 
morning,  and  as  yet  we  had  eaten  nothing.  In  spite  of  all  my 
anxiety.  I  began  to  feel  a  craving  appetite.     I  was  glad,  there- 


THE  8T0R7  OF  THE  BANDIT  CHIEFTAIN.         L87 

fore,  to  hear  the  captain  talk  something:  of  eating.  He  ob- 
served that  for  three  days  and  nights  tney  had  been  lurking 
about  among  rocks  and  woods,  meditating  their  expedition  to 
Tusculum,  during  which  all  their  provisions  had  been  exhausted. 
He  should  now  take  measures  to  procure  a  supply.  Leaving 
me,  therefore,  in  the  charge  of  his  comrade,  in  whom  he  ap- 
peared to  have  implicit  confidence,  he  departed,  assuring  me, 
that  in  less  than  two  hours  we  should  make  a  good  dinner. 
Where  it  was  to  come  from  was  an  enigma  to  me,  though  it 
was  evident  these  beings  had  their  secret  friends  and  agents 
throughout  the  country. 

Indeed,  the  inhabitants  of  these  mountains  and  of  the  valleys 
which  they  embosom  are  a  rude,  half  civilized  set.  The  towns 
and  villages  among  the  forests  of  the  Abruzzi,  shut  up  from 
the  rest  of  the  world,  are  almost  like  savage  dens.  It  is  won- 
derful that  such  rude  abodes,  so  little  known  and  visited, 
should  be  embosomed  in  the  midst  of  one  of  the  most  travelled 
and  civilized  countries  of  Europe.  Among  these  regions  the 
robber  prowls  unmolested ;  not  a  mountaineer  hesitates  to  give 
him  secret  harbor  and  assistance.  The  shepherds,  however, 
who  tend  their  flocks  among  the  mountains,  are  the  favorite 
emissaries  of  the  robbers,  when  they  would  send  messages 
down  to  the  valleys  either  for  ransom  or  supplies.  The  shep- 
herds of  the  Abruzzi  are  as  wild  as  the  scenes  they  frequent. 
They  are  clad  in  a  rude  garb  of  black  or  brown  sheep-skin; 
the\  have  high  conical  hats,  and  coarse  sandals  of  cloth 
bound  round  their  legs  with  thongs,  similar  to  those  worn  by 
the  n  >'  >1  >crs.  They  carry  long  staffs,  on  which  as  they  lean  they 
form  picturesque  objects  in  the  lonely  landscape,  and  they  are 
Followed  by  their  ever-constant  companion,  the  dog.  They  are 
&  curious,  questioning  set,  glad  at  any  time  to  relieve  the 
monotony  of  their  solitude  by  the  conversation  of  the  passer- 
by, and  the  dog  will  lend  an  attentive  ear.  and  put  on  as 
sagacious  and  inquisitive  a  look  as  his  master. 

But  1  am  wandering  from  my  story.  I  was  now  left  alone 
with  one  of  the  robbers,  the  confidential  companion  of  the 
chief,  lie  was  the  youngest  and  most  vigorous  of  the  band, 
and  though  his  countenance  had  something  of  that  dissolute 
fierceness  which  seems  natural  to  this  de  he,  lawless  mode 

of  life,  yet  there  were  traits  of  manly  beauty  about  it.  As  an 
artist  I  could  not  but  admire  it.  I  had  remarked  in  him  an 
air  of  abstraction  and  reverie,  a  ad  at  times  a  movement  of  in- 
ward suffering  and  impatience     He  nowsat  on  the  ground; 


188  TALES   OF  A    TRAVELLER 

his  elbows  on  his  knees,  his  head  resting  between  his  clenched 
fists,  and  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  earth  with  an  expression  of  sad 
and  bitter  rumination.  I  had  grown  familiar  with  him  from 
repeated  conversations,  and  had  found  him  superior  in  mind 
to  the  rest  of  the  band.  I  was  anxious  to  seize  every  oppor- 
,unity  of  sounding  the  feelings  of  these  singular  beings.  I 
fancied  I  read  in  the  countenance  of  this  one  traces  of  self-con- 
demnation and  remorse;  and  the  ease  with  which  I  had  drawn 
forth  the  confidence  of  the  chieftain  encouraged  me  to  hope 
the  same  with  Ins  followers. 

After  a  little  preliminary  conversation,  I  ventured  to  ask 
him  it*  he  did  not  feel  regret  at  having  abandoned  his  family 
and  taken  to  this  dangerous  profession.  "I  feel,"  replied  he, 
''but  one  regret,  and  that  will  end  only  with  my  life;"  as  he 
said  this  he  pressed  his  clenched  fists  upon  his  bosom,  drew  his 
breath  through  his  set  teeth,  and  added  with  deep  emotion,  ' '  I 
have  something  within  here  that  stifles  me;  it  is  like  a  burning 
iron  consuming  my  very  heart.  I ;  could  tell  you  a  miserable 
story,  but  not  now — another  time." — He  relapsed  into  his  former 
position,  and  sat  with  his  head  between  his  hands,  muttering  to 
himself  in  broken  ejaculations,  and  what  appeared  at  times  to 
be  curses  and  maledictions.  I  saw  he  was  not  in  a  mood  to  be 
disturbed,  so  I  left  him  to  himself.  In  a  little  time  the  exhaus- 
tion of  his  feelings,  and  probably  the  fatigues  he  had  undergone 
in  this  expedition,  began  to  produce  drowsiness.  He  struggled 
with  it  for  a  time,  but  the  warmth  and  sultriness  of  mid-day 
made  it  irresistible,  and  he  at  length  stretched  himself  upon 
the  herbage  and  fell  asleep. 

I  now  beheld  a  chance  of  escape  within  my  reach.  My  guard 
lay  before  me  at  my  mercy.  His  vigorous  limbs  relaxed  by 
sleep ;  his  bosom  open  for  the  blow ;  his  carbine  slipped  from 
his  nerveless  grasp,  and  lying  by  his  side ;  his  stiletto  half  out 
of  the  pocket  in  which  it  was  usually  carried.  But  two  of  his 
comrades  were  in  sight,  and  those  at  a  considerable  distance, 
on  the  edge  of  the  mountam;  their  backs  turned  to  us,  and 
their  attention  occupied  in  keeping  a  look-out  upon  the  plain. 
Through  a  strip  of  intervening  forest,  and  at  the  foot  of  a  steep 
descent,  I  beheld  the  village  of  Rocca  Priori.  To  have  secured 
the  carbine  of  the  sleeping  brigand,  to  have  seized  upon  his 
poniard  and  have  plunged  it  m  his  heart,  would  have  been  the 
work  of  an  instant.  Should  he  die  without  noise,  I  might  dart 
through  the  forest  and  down  to  Eocca  Priori  before  my  flight 
might  be  discovered.     In  case  of  alarm,  I  should  still  have  a 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  B.WDfr  CHIEFTAIN.         180 

fair  start  of  the  robbers,  and  a  chance  of  getting  beyond  the 
reach  of  their  shot. 

Here  then  was  an  opportunity  for  both  escape  and  ven- 
geance; perilous,  indeed,  but  powerfully  tempting.  Had  my 
situation  been  more  critical  I  could  not  have  resisted  it.  I  re- 
flected, however,  for  a  moment.  The  attempt,  if  successful, 
would  be  followed  by  the  sacrifice  of  my  two  fellow  prisoners, 
who  were  sleeping  profoundly,  and  could  not  be  awakened  in 
time  to  escape.  The  laborer  who  had  gone  after  the  ransom 
might  also  fall  a  victim  to  the  rage  of  the  robbers,  without  the 
money  which  he  brought  being  saved.  Besides,  the  conduct  of 
the  chief  towards  me  made  me  feel  certain  of  speedy  deliver- 
ance. These  reflections  overcame  the  first  powerful  impulse, 
and  I  calmed  the  turbulent  agitation  which  it  had  awakened. 

I  again  took  out  my  materials  for  drawing,  and  amused  my- 
self with  sketching  the  magnificent  prospect.  It  was  now  about 
noon,  and  every  thing  seemed  sunk  into  repose,  like  the  bandit 
that  lay  sleeping  before  me.  The  noon-tide  stillness  that  re 
over  these  mountains,  the  vast  landscape  below,  gleaming  with 
distant  towns  and  dotted  with  various  habitations  and  signs  of 
life,  yet  all  so  silent,  had  a  powerful  effect  upon  inv  mind. 
The  intermediate  valleys,  too,  that  he  among  mountains  have 
a  peculiar  air  of  solitude.  Few  sounds  are  heard  at  mid- day 
to  break  the  quiet  of  the  scene.  Sometimes  the  whistle  of  a 
solitary  muleteer,  lagging  with  his  lazy  animal  along  the  road 
that  winds  through  the  centre  of  the  valley ;  sometimes  the 
faint  piping  of  a  shepherd's  reed  from  the  side  of  the  moun- 
tain, or  sometimes  the  bell  of  an  ass  slowly  pacing  along,  fol- 
lowed by  a  monk  with  bare  feet  and  bare  shining  head,  and 
carrying  provisions  to  the  convent. 

I  had  continued  to  sketch  for  some  time  among  my  sleeping 
companions,  when  at  length  I  saw  the  captain  of  the  band  ap- 
proaching, followed  by  a  peasant  leading  a  mule,  on  which  was 
a  well-filled  sack.  I  at  first  apprehended  that  this  was 
new  prey  fallen  into  the  hands  of  the  robbers,  but  the 
tented  look  of  the  peasant  soon  relieved  me,  and  I  was  rejoiced 
to  hear  that  it  was  our  promised  repast.  The  brigands  now 
feame  running  from  the  three  sides  of  the  mountain,  caving 
the  quick  scent  of  vultures.  Every  one  busied  himself  in  un- 
loading the  mule  and  relieving  the  sack  of  its  contents. 

The  first  thing  that  made  Us  appearance  was  an  enormous 
ham  of  a  color  and  plumpness  that  would  have  inspired  the 
pencil  of  Temers.    It  was  followed  ,.  bag  of 


1Q()  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

boiled  chestnuts,  a  little  barrel  of  wine,  and  a  quantity  of  good 
household  bread.  Everything  was  arranged  on  the  grass  with 
a  degree  of  symmetry,  and  the  captain '  presenting  me  his 
knife,  requested  me  to  help  myself.  We  all  seated  ourselves 
round  the  viands,  and  nothing  was  heard  for  a  time  but  the 
sound  of  vigorous  mastication,  or  the  gurgling  of  the  barrel  of 
wine  as  it  revolved  briskly  about  the  circle.  My  long  fasting 
and  the  mountain  air  and  exercise  had  given  me  a  keen  appe- 
tite, and  never  did  repast  appear  to  me  more  excellent  or  pic- 
turesque. 

From  time  to  time  one  of  the  band  was  despatched  to  keep  a 
look-out  upon  the  plain :  no  enemy  was  at  hand,  and  the  din- 
'  ner  was  undisturbed. 

The  peasant  received  nearly  twice  the  value  of  his  provi- 
sions, and  set  off  down  the  mountain  highly  satisfied  with  his 
bargain.     I  felt  invigorated  by  the  hearty  meal  I  had  made, 
and  notwithstanding  that  the  wound  I  had  received  the  even- 
ing before  was  painful,  yet  I  could  not  but  feel  extremely  in- 
terested and  gratified  by  the  singular  scenes  continually  pre- 
sented to  me.     Every  thing  seemed  pictured  about  these  wild 
beings  and  their  haunts.   Their  bivouacs,  their  groups  on  guard, 
their  indolent  noon-tide  repose  on  the  mountain  brow,  their 
rude  repast  on  the  herbage  among  rocks  and  trees,  every  thing 
presented  a  study  for  a  painter.     But  it  was  towards  the  ap- 
proach of  evening  that  I  felt  the  highest  enthusiasm  awakened. 
The  setting  sun,  declining  beyond  the  vast  Campagna,  shed 
its  rich  yellow  beams  on  the  woody  summits  of  the  Abruzzi. 
Several  mountains  crowned  with  snow  shone  brilliantly  in  the 
distance,   contrasting   their    brightness  with    others,   which, 
thrown  into  shade,  assumed  deep  tints  of  purple  and  violet. 
As  the  evening  advanced,  the  landscape  darkened  into  a  sterner 
character.     The  immense  solitude  around;  the  wild  mountains 
broken  into  rocks  and  precipices,  intermingled  with  vast  oak, 
cork,  and  chestnuts;  and  the  groups  of  banditti  in  the  fore- 
ground, reminded  ine  of  those  savage  scenes  of  Salvator  Rosa. 
To  beguile  the  time  the  captain  proposed  to  his  comrades  to 
spread  before  me  their  jewels  and  cameos,  as  I  must  doubtless 
be  a  judge  of  such  articles,  and  able  to  inform  them  of  their 
nature.     He  set  the  example,  the  others  followed  it,  and  in  a 
few  moments  I  saw  the  grass  before  me  sparkling  with  jewels 
and  gems  that  would  have  delighted  the  eyes  of  an  antiquary 
or  a  fine  lady.     Among  them  were  several  precious  jewels  and 
antique  intagKos  and  cameos  of  great  wlue,  the  spoils  doubt- 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  BANDIT   CHIEFTAIN.          \f,)\ 

less  of  travellers  of  distinction.  I  found  that  they  were  in  the 
habit  of  selling  their  booty  hi  the  frontier  towns.  As  th< 
general  were  thinly  and  poorly  peopled,  and  little  frequented 
By  travellers,  they  could  offer  no  market  for  such  valuable  ar 
tides  of  taste  and  luxury.  I  suggested  to  them  the  certainty 
of  their  readily  obtaining  great  pieces  for  these  gems  among 
I  he  rich  strangers  with  which  Rome  was  thronged. 

The  impression  made  upon  their  greedy  minds  was  imme 
diately  apparent.  One  of  the  band,  a  young  man,  and  the  least 
known,  requested  permission  of  the  captain  to  depart  the  fol- 
lowing day  in  disguise  for  Rome,  for  the  purpose  of  traffick ; 
premising  on  the  faith  of  a  bandit  (a  sacred  pledge  amongst 
them)  to  return  in  two  days  to  any  place  he  might  appoint. 
The  captain  consented,  and  a  curious  scene  took  place.  The 
robbers  crowded  round  him  eagerly,  confiding  to  him  such  of 
their  jewels  as  they  wished  to  dispose  of,  and  giving  him  in- 
structions what  to  demand.  There  was  bargaining  and  ex- 
changing ?nd  selling  of  trinkets  among  themselves,  and  I  be- 
held my  wptch,  which  had  a  chain  and  valuable  seals,  pur- 
chased by  the  young  robber  merchant  of  the  ruffian  who  had 
plundered  me.  tor  sixty  dollars.  I  now  conceived  a  faint  hope 
that  if  it  wert  +c  Rome,  I  might  somehow  or  other  regain  pos 
session  of  it. 

In  the  mean  tune  day  declined,  and  no  messenger  returned 
from  Tusculum. 

The  idea  of  passing  another  night  in  the  woods  was  extremely 
disheartening ;  for  I  b°gan  to  be  satisfied  with  what  I  had  seen 
of  robber  life.  The  chieftain  now  ordered  his  men  to  follow 
him,  that  he  might  statioR  them  at  their  posts,  adding,  that  H 
the  messenger  did  not  return  before  night  they  must  shift  thei? 
quarters  to  some  other  place. 

I  was  again  left  alone  with  the  young  bandit  who  had  before 
guarded  me:  he  had  the  same  gloomy  air  and  haggard  eye 
with  now  and  then  a  bitter  sardonic  smile.  I  was  determined 
to  probe  this  ulcerated  heart,  and  reminded  him  of  a  kind  ot 
promise  he  had  given  me  to  tell  me  the  cause  ot  his  suffering. 

It  seemed  to  me  as  if  these  troubled  spirits  were  giad  of  an 
opportunity  to  disburthen  themselves;  and  of  having  some 
fresh  undiseased  mind  with  which  they  could  communicate. 
I  had  hardly  made  the  request  but  he  seated  himself  by  my 
side,  and  gave  me  his  story  in,  as  nearly  as  I  can  recollect, 
the  following  words. 


192  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 


THE  STORY  OF  THE  YOUNG  BOBBER. 

I  was  born  at  the  little  town  of  Frosinone,  whkh  lies  at  the 
Skirts  of  the  Abrnzzi.  My  father  had  made  a  little  property 
in  trade,  and  gave  me  some  education,  as  he  intended  me  for 
the  church,  but  I  had  kept  gay  company  too  much  to  relish  the 
cowl,  so  I  grew  up  a  loiterer  about  the  place.  I  was  a  heedless 
fellow,  a  little  quarrelsome  on  occasions,  but  good-humored  in 
the  main,  so  I  made  my  way  very  well  for  a  time,  until  x  fell 
in  love.  There  lived  in  our  town  a  surveyor,  or  land  bailiff, 
of  the  prince's  who  had  a  young  daughter,  a  beautiful  girl  of 
sixteen.  She  was  looked  upon  as  something  better  than  the 
common  run  of  our  townsfolk,  and  kept  almost  entirely  at 
home.  I  saw  her  occasionally,  and  became  madly  in  love  with 
her,  she  looked  so  fresh  and  tender,  and  so  different  to  the  sun- 
burnt females  to  whom  I  had  been  accustomed. 

As  my  father  kept  me  in  money,  I  always  dressed  well,  and 
took  all  opportunities  of  showing  myself  to  advantage  in  the 
eyes  of  the  little  beauty.  I  used  to  see  her  at  church ;  and  as 
I  could  play  a  little  upon  the  guitar,  I  gave  her  a  tune  some- 
times under  her  window  of  an  evening ;  and  I  tried  to  have 
interviews  with  her  in  her  father's  vineyard,  not  far  from  the 
town,  where  she  sometimes  walked.  She  was  evidently 
pleased  with  me,  but  she  was  young  and  shy,  and  her  father 
kept  a  strict  eye  upon  herv  and  took  alarm  at  my  attentions, 
for  he  had  a  bad  opinion  of  me,  and  looked  for  a  better  match 
for  his  daughter.  I  became  furious  at  the  difficulties  thrown 
in  my  way,  having  been  accustomed  always  to  easy  success 
among  the  women,  being  considered  one  of  the  smartest  young 
fellows  of  the  place. 

Her  father  brought  home  a  suitor  for  her ;  a  rich  farmer  from 
a  neighboring  town .  The  wedding-day  was  appointed,  and  prep- 
arations were  making.  I  got  sight  of  her  at  her  window,  and 
I  thought  she  looked  sadly  at  me.  I  determined  the  match 
should  not  take  place,  cost  what  it  might.  I  met  her  intended 
bridegroom  in  the  market-place,  and  could  not  restrain  the 
expression  of  my  rage.  A  few  hot  words  passed  between  us, 
when  I  drew  my  stiletto,  and  stabbed  him  to  the  heart.  I  fled 
to  a  neighboring  church  for  refuge;  and  with  a  little  money  1 
obtained  absolution;  but  I  did  not  dare  to  venture  from  my 
asylum. 

At  that  time  our  captain  was  forming  his  troop.     He  iiad 


Till-:  STORY  OF   THE    YOUNG   UOBBER  ]<j;j 

known  me  from  boyhood,  and  hearing  of  my  situation,  came  to 
me  in  secret,  and  made  such  offers  i\vX  I  agreed  to  enlist  myself 
among  his  followers.  Indeed,  I  had  more  than  once  thought 
of  taking  to  this  mode  of  life,  having  known  several  brave 
fellows  of  the  mountains,  who  used  to  spend  their  money 
freely  among  us  youngsters  of  the  town.  I  accordingly  left 
my  asyluni  late  one  night,  repaired  to  the  appointed  place  of 
meeting ;  took  the  oaths  prescribed,  and  became  one  of  the  troop. 
We  were  for  some  time  in  a  distant  part  of  the  mountains,  and 
our  wild  adventurous  kind  of  life  hit  my  fancy  wonderfully, 
and  diverted  my  thoughts.  At  length  they  returned  with  all 
their  violence  to  the  recollection  of  Rosetta.  The  solitude  in 
which  I  often  found  myself  gave  me  time  to  brood  over  her 
image,  and  as  I  have  kept  watch  at  night  over  our  sleeping 
camp  in  the  mountains,  my  feelings  have  been  roused  almost 
to  a  fever. 

At  length  we  shifted  our  ground,  and  determined  to  make  a 
descent  upon  the  road  between  Terracina  and  Naples.  In  the 
course  of  our  expedition,  we  passed  a  day  or  two  in  the  woody 
mountains  which  rise  above  Frosinone.  I  cannot  tell  you  how 
I  felt  when  I  looked  down  upon  the  place,  and  distinguished 
the  residence  of  Rosetta.  I  determined  to  have  an  interview 
with  her;  but  to  what  purpose?  I  could  not  expect  that  she 
would  quit  her  home,  and  accompany  me  in  nr  hazardous  life 
among  the  mountains.  She  had  been  brought  up  too  tenderly 
for  that ;  and  when  I  looked  upon  the  women  who  were  associ- 
ated with  .some  of  our  troop,  I  could  not  have  borne  the 
thoughts  of  her  being  their  companion.  All  return  to  my  for- 
mer life  was  likewise  hopeless;  for  a  price  was  set  upon  my 
head.  Still  I  determined  to  see  her;  the  very  hazard  and 
iruitlessness  of  the  thing  made  me  furious  to  accomplish  it. 

J<i  is  about  three  weeks  since  I  persuaded  our  captain  to  draw 
down  to  the  vicinity  of  Frosinone,  in  hopes  of  entrapping  some 
pf  its  principal  inhabitants,  and  compelling  them  to  a  ransom. 
We  were  lying  in  ambush  towards  evening,  not  far  from  the 
vineyard  of  Rosetta's  father.  I  stole  quietly  from  my  compan- 
ions, and  drew  near  to  reconnoitre  the  place  of  her  frequent 
walks. 

How  my  heart  beat  when,  among  the  vines,  I  beheld  the 
gueaminc:  of  a  white  dress!  I  knew  it  musl  he  Rosetta's;  it 
being  rare  for  nay  female  of  the  place  to  dr<<ss  in  whit  | 
advanced  secretly  and  without  noise,  until  putting  aside  the 
vines.  1   stood  suddenly  before   her.     She   uttered  a  piercing 


Hit  TAlftB  OF  A    TRAVELLER 

shriek,  but  I  seized  her  in  my  arms,  put  my  hand  upon  her 
mouth  and  conjured  her  to  be  silent.  I  poured  out  all  the 
frenzy  of  my  passion ;  offered  to  renounce  my  mode  of  life,  to 
put  my  fate  in  her  hands,  to  fly  with  her  where  we  might  live 
in  safety  together.  All  that  I  could  say,  or  do,  would  not 
pacify  her.  Instead  of  love,  horror  and  affright  seemed  to 
have  taken  possession  of  her  breast. — She  struggled  partly 
from  my  grasp,  and  filled  the  air  with  her  cries.  In  an  instant 
the  captain  and  the  rest  of  my  companions  were  around  us. 
I  would  have  given  anything  at  that  moment  had  she  been 
safe  out  of  our  hands,  and  in  her  father's  house.  It  was  too 
late.  The  captain  pronounced  her  a  prize,  and  ordered  that 
she  should  be  borne  to  the  mountains.  I  represented  to  him 
that  she  was  my  prize,  that  I  had  a  previous  claim  to  her ;  and 
I  mentioned  my  former  attachment.  He  sneered  bitterly  in 
reply;  observed  that  brigands  had  no  business  with  village 
intrigues,  and  that,  according  to  the  laws  of  the  troop,  all 
spoils  of  the  kind  were  determined  by  lot.  Love  and  jealousy 
were  raging  in  my  heart,  but  I  had  to  choose  between  obedi- 
ence and  death.  I  surrendered  her  to  the  captain,  and  we 
made  for  the  mountains. 

She  was  overcome  by  affright,  and  her  steps  were  so  feeble 
and  faltering,  and  it  was  necessary  to  support  her.  I  could 
not  endure  the  idea  that  my  comrades  should  touch  her,  and 
assuming  a  forced  tranquillity,  begged  that  she  might  be  con- 
fided to  me,  as  one  to  whom  she  was  more  accustomed.  The 
captain  regarded  me  for  a  moment  with  a  searching  look,  but 
I  bore  it  without  flinching,  and  he  consented.  I  took  her  in 
my  arms:  she  was  almost  senseless.  Her  head  rested  on  my 
shoulder,  her  mouth  was  near  to  mine.  I  felt  her  breath  on 
my  face,  and  it  seemed  to  fan  the  flame  which  devoured  me. 
Oh,  God !  to  have  this  glowing  treasure  in  my  arms,  and  yet  to 
think  it  was  not  mine ! 

We  arrived  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain.  I  ascended  it  with 
difficulty,  particularly  where  the  woods  were  thick ;  but  I  would 
not  relinquish  my  delicious  burthen.  I  reflected  with  rage, 
however,  that  I  must  soon  do  so.  The  thoughts  that  so  deli- 
cate a  creature  must  be  abandoned  to  my  rude  companions, 
maddened  me.  I  felt  tempted,  the  stiletto  in  my  hand,  to  cut 
my  way  through  them  all,  and  bear  her  off  in  triumph.  I 
scarcely  conceived  the  idea,  before  I  saw  its  rashness ;  but  my 
brain  was  fevered  with  the  thought  that  any  but  myself  should 
enjoy  her  charms.      I  endeavored  to  outstrip  my  companions 


THE  STORY  OF  THE   YOUNQ   ROBBER.  J  Do 

by  the  quickness  of  my  movements ;  and  to  get  a  little  distance 
ahead,  in  case  any  favorable  opportunity  of  escape  should  pre- 
sent. Vain  effort!  The  voice  of  the  captain  suddenly  ordered 
a  halt.  I  trembled,  but  had  to  obey.  The  poor  girl  partly 
opened  a  languid  eye,  but  was  without  strength  or  motion.  I 
laid  her  upon  the  grass.  The  captain  darted  on  me  a  terrible 
look  of  suspicion,  and  ordered  me  to  scour  the  woods  with  my 
•ompamons,  in  search  of  some  shepherd  who  might  be  sent  to 
her  father's  to  demand  a  ransom. 

I  saw  at  once  the  peril.  To  resist  Avith  violence  was  certain 
death ;  but  to  leave  her  alone,  in  the  power  of  the  captain ! — I 
spoke  out  then  with  a  fervor  inspired  by  my  passion  and  my 
despair.  I  reminded  the  captain  that  I  was  the  first  to  seize 
her ;  that  she  was  my  prize,  and  that  my  previous  attachment 
for  her  should  make  her  sacred  among  my  companions.  I 
insisted,  therefore,  that  he  should  pledge  me  his  word  to  respect 
her;  otherwise  I  should  refuse  obedience  to  his  orders.  His 
only  reply  was,  to  cock  his  carbine ;  and  at  the  signal  my  com- 
rades did  the  same.  They  laughed  with  cruelty  at  my  impo- 
tent rage.  What  could  I  do  ?  I  felt  the  madness  of  resistance. 
I  was  menaced  on  all  hands,  and  my  companions  obliged  me  to 
follow  them.  She  remained  alone  with  the  chief— yes,  alone — 
and  almost  lif  eless ! — 

Here  the  robber  paused  in  his  recital,  overpowered  by  his 
emotions.  Great  drops  of  sweat  stood  on  his  forehead;  he 
panted  rather  than  breathed ;  his  brawny  bosom  rose  and  fell 
like  the  waves  of  a  troubled  sea.  When  he  had  become  a  little 
calm,  he  continued  his  recital. 

I  was  not  long  in  finding  a  shepherd,  said  he.  I  ran  with  the 
rapidity  of  a  deer,  eager,  if  possible,  to  get  back  before  what  I 
dreaded  might  take  place.  I  had  left  my  companions  far 
behind,  and  I  rejoined  them  before  they  had  reached  one-half 
the  distance  I  had  made.  I  hurried  them  back  to  the  place 
where  we  had  left  the  captain.  As  we  approached,  I  beheld 
him  seated  by  the  side  of  Rosetta.  His  triumphant  look,  and 
the  desolate  condition  of  the  unfortunate  girl,  left  me  no  doubt 
of  her  fate.     I  know  not  how  I  restrained  my  fury. 

It  was  with  extreme  difficulty,  and  by  guiding  her  hand,  that 
she  was  made  to  trace  a  few  characters,  requesting  her  father 
to  send  three  hundred  dollars  as  her  ransom.  The  letter  was 
despatched  by  the  shepherd.  When  he  was  gone,  the  chief 
turned  sternly  to  me:  "  You  have  set  an  example,"  said  he,  "of 
mutiny  and  self-will,  which  if  indulged  would  be  ruinous  to  the 


196  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

troop.  Had  I  treated  you  as  our  laws  require,  this  bullet  would 
have  been  driven  through  your  brain.  But  you  are  an  old 
friend ;  I  have  borne  patiently  with  your  fury  and  your  folly ; 
I  have  even  protected  you  from  a  foolish  passion  that  would 
have  unmanned  you.  As  to  this  girl,  the  laws  of  our  associa- 
tion must  have  their  course. "  So  saying,  he  gave  his  commands, 
lots  Avere  drawn,  and  the  helpless  girl  was  abandoned  to  the 
troop. 

Here  the  robber  paused  again,  panting  with  fury  and  it  wa s 
some  moments  before  he  could  resume  his  story. 

Hell,  said  he,  was  raging  in  my  heart.  I  beheld  the  impossi- 
bility of  avenging  myself,  and  I  felt  that,  according  to  the  arti- 
cles in  which  we  stood  bound  to  one  another,  the  captain  was 
in  the  right.  I  rushed  with  frenzy  from  the  place.  I  threw 
myself  upon  the  earth ;  tore  up  the  grass  with  my  hands,  and 
my  head,  and  gnashed  my  teeth  in  agony  and  rage. 
When  at  length  I  returned,  I  beheld  the  wretched  victim,  pale, 
d  LshevelL  >d ;  her  d  ress  torn  and  disordered.  An  emotion  of  pity 
for  a  moment  subdued  my  fiercer  feelings.  I  bore  her  to  the 
foot  of  a  tree,  and  leaned  her  gently  against  it.  I  took  my 
gourd,  which  was  filled  with  wine,  and  applying  it  to  her  lips, 
endeavored  to  moke  her  swallow  a  little.  To  what  a  condition 
was  she  recovered !  She,  whom  I  had  once  seen  the  pride  of 
Frosinone,  who  but  a  short  time  before  I  had  beheld  sporting 
in  her  father's  vineyard,  so  fresh  and  beautiful  and  happy! 
Her  teeth  were  clenched ;  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground ;  her 
form  without  motion,  and  in  a  state  of  absolute  insensibility. 
I  hung  over  her  in  an  agony  of  recollection  of  all  that  she  had 
1 )(( 11.  and  of  anguish  at  what  I  now  beheld  her.  I  darted  round 
a  look  of  horror  at  my  companions,  who  seemed  like  so  many 
fiends  exulting  in  the  downfall  of  an  angel,  and  I  felt  a  horror 
at  myself  for  being  their  accomplice. 

The  captain,  always  suspicious,  saw  with  his  usual  penetra- 
tion what  was  passing  within  me,  and  ordered  me  to  go  upon 
the  ridge  of  woods  to  keep  a  look-out  upon  the  neighborhood 
and  await  the  return  of  the  shepherd.  I  obeyed,  of  course, 
stifling  the  fury  that  raged  within  me,  though  I  felt  for  the 
moment  that  he  was  my  most  deadly  foe. 

On  my  way,  however,  a  ray  of  reflection  came  across  my 

mind.     I  perceived  that  the  captain  was  but  following  with 

strictness  the  terrible  laws  to  which  we  had  sworn  fidelity. 

That  the  passion  by  which  I  had  been  blinded  might  with  jus- 

. i  fatal  to  me  but  for  his  forbearance ;  that  he  had 


Till:  STORY   OF  THE    VOUXG    BOBBER.  197 

penetrated  my  soul,  and  had  taken  precautions,  by  sending  me 
out  of  the  way,  to  prevent  my  committing  any  excess  in  my 
anger.  From  that  instant  I  felt  that  I  was  capable  of  pardon- 
ing him. 

Occupied  with  these  thoughts.  I  arrived  at  the  foot  of  the 
mountain.  The  country  was  solitary  and  secure ;  and  in  a  short 
time  I  beheld  the  shepherd  at  a  distance  crossing  the  plain.  I 
fastened  to  meet  him.  He  had  obtained  nothing.  He  had 
found  the  father  plunged  in  the  deepest  distress.  He  had  read 
the  letter  with  violent  emotion,  and  then  calming  himself  with 
a  sudden  exertion,  he  had  replied  coldly,  "My  daughter  has 
been  dishonored  by  those  wretches ;  let  her  be  returned  without 
ransom,  or  let  her  die!" 

I  shuddered  at  this  reply.  I  knew,  according  to  the  laws  of 
our  troop,  her  death  was  inevitable.  Our  oaths  required  it.  I 
felt,  nevertheless,  that,  not  having  been  able  to  have  her  to 
myself.  I  could  become  her  executioner ! 

The  robber  again  paused  with  agitation.     I  sat  musing  upon* 
Iris  last  frightful  words,  which  proved  to  what  excess  the  pas- 
sions may  be  carried  when  escaped  from  all  moral  restraint. 
There  was  a  horrible  verity  in  this  story  that  reminded  me  of 
some  of  the  tragic  fictions  of  Dante. 

We  now  came  to  a  fatal  moment,  resumed  the  bandit.  After 
the  report  of  the  shepherd,  I  returned  with  him,  and  the  chief- 
tain received  from  his  lips  the  refusal  of  the  father.  At  a  sig- 
nal, which  we  all  understood,  we  followed  him  some  distance 
from  the  victim.  He  there  pronounced  her  sentence  of  death. 
Every  one  stood  ready  to  execute  his  order ;  but  I  interfered. 
I  observed  that  there  was  something  due  to  pity,  as  well  as  to 
justice.  That  I  was  as  ready  as  any  one  to  approve  the  impla- 
cable law  which  was  to  serve  as  a  warning  to  all  those  who 
hesitated  to  pay  the  ransoms  demanded  for  our  prisoners,  but 
that,  though  the  sacrifice  was  proper,  it  ought  to  be  made  with- 
out cruelty.  The  night  is  approaching,  continued  I ;  she  will 
soon  be  wrapped  in  sleep;  let  her  then  be  despatched.  All  that 
.1  now  claim  on  the  score  of  former  fondness  for  her  is,  let  me 
strike  the  blow.  I  will  do  it  as  surely,  but  more  tenderly  than 
another. 

Several  raised  their  voices  against  my  proposition,  but  the 
captain  imposed  silence  on  them.  He  told  me  I  might  conduct 
her  into  a  thicket  at  some  distance,  and  he  relied  upon  my 
pr<  >mise. 

T  hastened  to  seize  my  prey.     There  was  a  forlorn  kind  of 


19S  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

triumph  at  having  at  length  become  her  exclusive  possessor.  1 
bore  her  off  into  the  thickness  of  the  forest.  She  remained  in 
the  same  state  of  insensibility  and  stupor.  I  was  thankful 
that  she  did  not  recollect  me ;  for  had  she  once  murmured  my 
name,  I  should  have  been  overcome.  She  slept  at  length  in 
the  arms  of  him  who  was  to  poniard  her.  Many  were  the  con- 
I  underwent  before  I  could  bring  myself  to  strike  the 
Mow.  My  heart  had  become  sore  by  the  recent  conflicts  it  h?A 
rgone,  and  I  dreaded  lest,  by  procrastination,  some  other 
should  become  her  executioner.  When  her  repose  had  contin- 
ued for  some  time,  I  separated  myself  gently  from  her,  that  I 
might  not  disturb  her  sleep,  and  seizing  suddenly  my  poniard, 
plunged  it  into  her  bosom.  A  painful  and  concentrated 
murmur,  but  without  any  convulsive  movement,  accompanied 
her  last  sigh.     So  perished  this  unfortunate. 

He  ceased  to  speak.  I  sat  horror-struck,  covering  my  face 
with  my  hands,  seeking,  as  it  were,  to  hide  from  myself  the 
frightful  images  he  had  presented  to  my  mind.  I  was  roused 
from  this  silence  by  the  voice  of  the  captain.  "You  sleep," 
said  he,  ' '  and  it  is  time  to  be  off.  Come,  we  must  abandon 
this  height,  as  night  is  setting  in,  and  the  messenger  is  not 
returned.  I  will  post  some  one  on  the  mountain  edge,  to  con 
duct  him  to  the  place  where  we  shall  pass  the  night.'1 

This  was  no  agreeable  news  to  me.  I  was  sick  at  heart  with 
the  dismal  story  I  had  heard.  I  was  harassed  and  fatigued, 
and  the  sight  of  the  banditti  began  to  grow  insupportable  to 
me. 

The  captain  assembled  his  comrades.  We  rapidly  descended 
the  forest  which  we  had  mounted  with  so  much  difficulty  in 
the  morning,  and  soon  arrived  in  what  appeared  to  be  a  fre- 
quented road.  The  robbers  proceeded  with  great  caution, 
carrying  their  guns  cocked,  and  looking  on  every  side  with 
wary  and  suspicious  eyes.  They  were  apprehensive  of  encoun- 
tering the  civic  patrole.  We  left  Rocca  Priori  behind  us. 
There  was  a  fountain  near  by,  and  as  I  was  excessively  thirsty, 
I  begged  permission  to  stop  and  drink.  The  captain  himself 
went,  and  brought  me  water  in  his  hat.  We  pursued  our 
route,  when,  at  the  extremity  of  an  alley  which  crossed  the 
road,  I  p'erceived  a  female  on  horseback,  dressed  in  white.  She 
was  alone.  I  recollected  the  fate  of  the  poor  girl  in  the  story, 
and  trembled  for  her  safety. 

One  of  the  brigands  saw  her  at  the  same  instant,  and  plung- 
ing into  the  bushes,   he  ran   precipatately  in  the  direction 


THE  STOnT  OF  THB    YOtlNG    ROBBER.  199 

towards  her.  Stopping  on  the  border  of  the.  alley,  he  put  one 
knee  to  the  ground,  presented  his  carbine  ready  for  menace, 
or  to  shoot  her  horse  if  she  attempted  to  fly,  and  in  this  way 
awaited  her  approach.  I  kept  my  eyes  fixed  on  her  with 
intense  anxiety.  I  felt  tempted  to  shout,  and  warn  her  of  her 
danger,  though  my  own  destruction  would  have  been  the  con- 
sequence. It  was  awful  to  see  this  tiger  crouching  ready  for  a 
bound,  and  the  poor  innocent  victim  wandering  unconsciously 
near  him.  Nothing  but  a  mere  chance  could  save  her.  To  my 
joy,  the  chance  turned  in  her  favor.  She  seemed  almost  acci- 
dentally to  take  an  opposite  path,  which  led  outside  of  the 
wood,  where  the  robber  dare  not  venture.  To  this  casual  devi- 
ation she  owed  her  safety. 

I  could  not  imagine  why  the  captain  of  the  band  had  ven- 
tured to  such  a  distance  from  the  height,  on  wrhich  he  had 
placed  the  sentinel  to  watch  the  return  of  the  messengers.  He 
seemed  himself  uneasy  at  the  risk  to  which  he  exposed  himself. 
His  movements  were  rapid  and  uneasy ;  I  could  scarce  keep 
pace  with  him.  At  length,  after  three  hours  of  what  might 
be  termed  a  forced  march,  we  mounted  the  extremity  of  the 
same  woods,  the  summit  of  which  we  had  occupied  during  the 
day :  and  I  learnt  with  satisfaction,  that  we  had  reached  our 
quarters  for  the  night.  "You  must  be  fatigued,"  said  the 
chief  tan;  "but  it  was  necessary  to  survey  the  environs,  so  as 
not  to  be  surprised  during  the  night.  Had  we  met  with  the 
famous  civic  guard  of  Rocca  Priori  you  would  have  seen  fine 
sport."  Such  was  the  indefatigable  precaution  and  forethought 
of  this  robber  chief,  who  really  gave  continual  evidences  of  mili- 
tary talent. 

The  night  was  magnificent.  The  moon  rising  above  the  hori- 
zon in  a  cloudless  sky,  faintly  lit  up  the  grand  features  of  the 
mountains,  while  lights  twinkling  here  and  there,  like  terres- 
trial stars,  in  the  wide,  dusky  expanse  of  the  landscape, 
betrayed  the  lonely  cabins  of  the  shepherds.  Exhausted  by 
fatigue,  and  by  the  many  agitations  I  had  experienced,  I  pre- 
pared to  sleep,  soothed  by  the  hope  of  approaching  deliverance. 
The  captain  ordered  his  companions  to  collect  some  dry  moss ; 
he  arranged  with  his  own  hands  a  kind  of  mattress  ard  pillow 
of  it,  and  gave  uie  his  ample  mantle  as  a  covering.  I  could 
not  but  feel  both  surprised  and  gratified  by  such  unexpected 
attentions  on  the  part  of  this  benevolent  cut-throat :  for  there 
is  n<  tthing  more  striking  than  to  find  the  ordinary  charities, 
which  are  matters  of  course  in  common  life,  flourishing  by  th# 


WO  TALES  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

side  of  such  stern  and  sterile  crime.  It  is  like  finding  the 
tender  flowers  and  fresh  herbage  of  the  valley  growing  among 
the  rocks  ond  cinders  of  the  volcano. 

Before  I  fell  asleep,  I  had  some  farther  discourse  with  the 
captain,  who  seemed  to  put  great  confidence  in  me.  He  re- 
ferred to  our  previous  conversation  of  the  morning;  told  me  he 
was  weary  of  his  hazardous  profession ;  that  he  had  acquired 
sufficient  property,  and  was  anxious  to  return  to  the  world  and 
Lead  a  peaceful  life  in  the  bosom  of  his  family.  He  wished  to 
know  whether  it  was  not  in  my  power  to  procure  him  a  pass- 
port for  the  United  States  of  America.  I  applauded  his  good 
intentions,  and  promised  to  do  everything  in  my  power  to 
promote  its  success.  We  then  parted  for  the  night.  I  stretched 
myself  upon  my  couch  of  moss,  which,  after  my  fatigues,  felt 
like  a  bed  of  down,  and  sheltered  by  the  robber's  mantle  from 
all  humidity,  I  slept  soundly  without  waking,  until  the  signal 
to  arise. 

It  was  nearly  six  o'clock,  and  the  day  was  just  dawning. 
As  the  place  where  we  had  passed  the  night  was  too  much 
exposed,  we  moved  up  into  the  thickness  of  the  woods.  A 
fire  was  kindled.  While  there  was  any  flame,  the  mantles 
were  again  extended  round  it ;  but  when  nothing  remained  but 
glowing  cinders,  they  were  lowered,  and  the  robbers  seated 
themselves  in  a  circle. 

The  scene  before  me  reminded  me  of  some  of  those  described 
by  Homer.  There  wanted4  only  the  victim  on  the  coals,  and 
the  sacred  knife,  to  cut  off  the  succulent  parts,  and  distribute 
them  around.  My  companions  might  have  rivalled  the  grim 
warriors  of  Greece.  In  place  of  the  noble  repasts,  however, 
of  Achilles  and  Agamemnon,  I  beheld  displayed  on  the  grass 
the  remains  of  the  ham  which  had  sustained  so  vigorous  an 
attack  on  the  preceding  evening,  accompanied  by  the  reliques 
of  the  bread,  cheese,  and  wine. 

We  had  scarcely  commenced  our  frugal  breakfast,  when  I 
heard  again  an  imitation  of  the  bleating  of  sheep,  similar  to 
what  I  had  heard  the  day  before.  The  captain  answered  it  in 
the  same  tone.  Two  men  were  soon  after  seen  descending  from 
the  woody  height,  where  we  had  passed  the  preceding  evening. 
On  nearer  approach,  they  proved  to  be  the  sentinel  and  the 
messenger.  The  captain  rose  and  went  to  meet  them.  He 
made  a  signal  for  his  comrades  to  join  him.  They  had  a  short 
conference,  and  then  returning  to  me  with  eagerness,  "Your 
ransom  is  paid,"  said  he;  "you  are  free!" 


77//-:  STOJRT  OF  TBE    YOXTNQ    BOBBER.  201 

Though  I  had  anticipated  leliverance,  I  cannot  tell  you  what 
a  rush  of  delight  these  tidings  gave  me.  I  cared  not  to  finish 
my  repast,  but  prepared  to  depart.  The  captain  took  me  by 
the  hand;  requested  permission  to  write  to  me,  and  begged  me 
not  to  forget  the  passport.  I  replied,  that  I  hoped  to  be  of 
effectual  service  to  him,  and  that  I  relied  on  his  honor  to  return 
the  prince's  note  for  five  hundred  dollars,  now  that  the  cash 
was  paid.  He  regarded  me  for  a  moment  with  surprise;  then, 
seeming  to  recollect  himself,  "E  giusto,"  said  he,  "eccolo— 
adio!"*  He  delivered  me  the  note,  pressed  my  hand  once 
more,  and  we  separated.  The  laborers  were  permitted  to  fol- 
low me,  and  we  resumed  with  joy  our  road  towards  Tusculum. 


The  artist  ceased  to  speak :  the  party  continued  for  a  few 
moments  to  pace  the  shore  of  Terracina  in  silence.  The  story 
they  had  heard  had  made  a  deep  impression  on  them,  particu- 
larly on  the  fair  Venetian,  who  had  gradually  regained  her 
husband's  arm.  At  the  part  that  related  to  the  young  girl  of 
Frosinone,  she  had  been  violently  affected;  sobs  broke  from 
her :  she  clung  close  to  her  husband,  and  as  she  looked  up  to 
him  as  if  for  protection,  the  moon-beams  shining  on  her  beauti- 
fully fair  countenance  showed  it  paler  than  usual  with  terror, 
while  tears  glittered  in  her  fine  dark  eyes.  "O  caro  mio!" 
would  she  murmur,  shuddering  at  every  atrocious  circum- 
stance of  the  story. 

"Corragio,  mia  vita!"  was  the  reply,  as  the  husband  gently 
and  fondly  tapped  the  white  hand  that  lay  upon  his  arm. 

The  Englishman  alone  preserved  his  usual  phlegm,  and  the 
fair  Venetian  was  piqued  at  it. 

She  had  pardoned  him  a  want  of  gallantry  towards  herself, 
though  a  sin  of  omission  seldom  met  with  in  the  gallant  climate 
of  Italy,  but  the  quiet  coolness  which  he  maintained  in  matters 
which  so  much  affected  her,  and  the  slow  credence  whicJ 
had  given  to  the  stories  which  had  filled  her  with  alarm,  wore 
quite  vexatious. 

"Santa  Maria!"  said  she  to  husband  as  they  retired  for  the 
night.  "  what  insensible  beings  these  English  are  !" 

In  the  morning  all  was  bustle  at  the  inn  at  Terracina. 

The  procaccio  had  departed  at  day-break,  on  its  route  towards 
Rome,  but  the  Englishman  was  yet  to  start,  and  the  departure 
if  an  English  equipage  is  always  enoug]  p  an  inn  in  a 


♦  It  is  juutr-Uiere  it  is -adieu : 


202  TALES  OF  A   TRA  VELLER. 

bustle.  On  this  occasion  there  was  more  than  usual  stir ;  for 
the  Englishman  having  much  property  about  him,  and  having 
been  convinced  of  the  real  danger  of  the  road,  had  applied  to 
the  police  and  obtained,  by  dint  of  liberal  pay,  an  escort  of 
eight  dragoons  and  twelve  foot-soldiers,  as  far  a  Fondi, 

Perhaps,  too,  there  might  have  been  a  little  ostentation  at 
bottom,  from  which,  with  great  delicacy  be  it  spoken,  English 
travellers  are  not  always  exempt;  though  to  say  the  truth,  he 
had  nothing  of  it  in  his  manner.  He  moved  about  taciturn 
and  reserved  as  usual,  among  the  gaping  crowd  in  his  ginger- 
bread-colored travelling  cap,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 
He  gave  laconic  orders  to  John  as  he  packed  away  the  thou- 
sand and  one  indispensable  conveniencies  of  the  night,  double 
loaded  his  pistols  with  great  sang-froid,  and  deposited  them  in 
the  pockets  of  the  carriage,  taking  no  notice  of  a  pair  of  keen 
eyes  gazing  on  him  from  among  the  herd  of  loitering  idlers. 
The  fair  Venetian  now  came  up  with  a  request  made  in  her 
dulcet  tones,  that  he  would  permit  their  carriage  to  proceed 
under  protection  of  his  escort..  The  Englishman,  who  was 
busy  loading  another  pair  of  pistols  for  his  servant,  and  held 
the  ramrod  between  his  teeth,  nodded  assent  as  a  matter  of 
course,  but  without  lifting  up  his  eyes.  The  fair  Venetian  was 
not  accustomed  to  such  indifference.  'l  O  Dio!"  ejaculated  she 
softly  as  she  retired,  "come  sono  freddi  questi  Inglcsi."  At 
length  off  they  set  in  gallant  style,  the  eight  dragoons  prancing 
in  front,  the  twelve  foot-soldiers  marching  in  rear,  and  car- 
riages moving  slowly  in  the  centre  to  enable  the  infantry  to 
keep  pace  with  them.  They  had  proceeded  but  a  few  hundred 
yard  when  it  was  discovered  that  some  indispensable  article 
had  been  left  behind. 

In  fact,  the  Englishman's  purse  was  missing,  and  John  was 
despatched  to  the  inn  to  search  for  it. 

Tins  occasioned  a  little  delay,  and  the  carriage  of  the  Vene 
tians  drove  slowly  on.  John  came  back  out  of  breath  and  out 
of  humor ;  the  purse  was  not  to  be  found ;  his  master  was  irri- 
tated ;  he  recollected  the  very  place  where  it  lay ;  the  cursed 
Italian  servant  had  pocketed  it.  John  was  again  sent  back. 
He  returned  once  more,  without  the  purse,  but  with  the  land- 
lord and  the  whole  household  at  his  heels.  A  thousand  ejacu- 
lations and  protestations,  accompanied  by  all  sorts  of  grimaces 
and  contortions.  "No  purse  had  been  seen — his  excellenza 
must  be  mistaken. " 

No — his  excellenza  was  not  mistaken ;  the  purse  lay  on  the 


THE  STOJIJ   OF  THE    YOUNG    UOBB  *A>K 

marble  table,  under  the  mirror:  a  green  purse,  half  full  of  gold 
and  silver.     Again  a  thousand  grimaces  and  contortions,  and 

vows  by  San  Genario,  that  no  purse  of  the  kind  had  been  seen. 

The  Englishman  became  furious.  "The  waiter  had  pocketed 
it.     The  landlord  was  a  knave.     The  inn  a  den  of  thieves— it 

was  a  d d  country — he  had  been  cheated  and  plundered 

from  one  end  of  it  to  the  other— but  he'd  have  satisfaction- 
he'd  drive  right  off  to  the  police." 

He  was  on  the  point  of  ordering  the  postilions  to  turn  back, 
when,  on  rising,  he  displaced  the  cushion  of  the  carriage,  and 
the  purse  of  money  fell  chinking  to  the  floor. 

All  the  blood  in  his   body  seemed  to   rush  into  his  face. 

11 D n  the  purse,*'  said  he,  as  he  snatched  it  up.     He  dashed 

a  handful  of  money  on  the  ground  before  the  pale,  cringing 
waiter.  ; '  There — be  ofJ, "  cried  he ;  ' '  John,  order  the  postilions 
to  drive  on." 

Above  half  an  hour  had  been  exhausted  in  this  altercation. 
The  Venetian  carriage  had  loitered  along ;  its  passengers  look- 
ing out  from  time  to  time,  and  expecting  the  escort  every 
moment  to  follow.  They  had  gradually  turned  an  angle  of  the 
road  that  shut  them  out  of  sight.  The  little  army  was  again  in 
motion,  and  made  a  very  picturesque  appearance  as  it  wound 
along  at  the  bottom  of  the  rocks ;  the  morning  sunshine  beam- 
ing upon  the  weapons  of  soldiery. 

The  Englishman  lolled  backln  his  carriage,  vexed  with  him- 
self at  what  had  passed,  and  consequently  out  of  humor  with 
all  the  world.  As  this,  however,  is  no  uncommon  case  with 
gentlemen  who  travel  for  their  pleasure,  it  is  hardly  worthy  of 
remark. 

They  had  wound  up  from  the  coast  among  the  hills,  and 
came  to  a  part  of  the  road  that  admitted  of  some  prospec 
ahead. 

"I  see  nothing  of  the  lady's  carriage,  sir,''  said  John,  leaning 
over  from  the  coach  box. 

"Hang  the  lady's  carriage!"'  said  the  Englishman,  cm- 
"don't  plague  me  about  the  lady's  carriage;  must  I  be  continu- 
ally pestered  with  strangers?" 

John  said  not  another  word,  for  he  understood  his  master's 
mood.  The  road  grew  more  wild  and  lonely;  they  were  slowly 
proceeding  in  a  foot  pace  up  a  hill ;  the  dragoons  were  some 
distance  ahead,  and  had  just  reached  the  summit  of  the  hill, 
when  they  uttered  an  exclamation,  or  rather  shout,  and  gal- 
loped forward.     The  Englishman  was  aroused  from  his  sulky 


204  TALES  OF  A    TRA  VELLER. 

revery.  He  stretched  his  head  from  the  carriage,  which 
had  attained  the  brow  of  the  hill.  Before  him  extended  a  long 
hollow  defile,  commanded  on  one  side  by  rugged,  precipitous 
heights,  covered  with  bushes  and  scanty  fores'  trees.  At  some 
distance  he  beheld  the  carriage  of  the  Venitians  overturned ;  a 
numerous  gang  of  desperadoes  were  rifling  it ;  the  young  man 
and  Ins  servant  were  overpowered  and  partly  stripped,  and  the 
lady  was  in  the  hands  of  two  of  the  ruffians.  The  Englishman 
seized  his  pistols,  sprang  from  his  carriage,  and  called  upon 
John  to  follow  him.  In  the  meantime,  as  the  dragoons  came 
forward,  the  robbers  who  were  busy  with  the  carriage  quitted 
their  spoil,  formed  themselves  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  and 
taking  deliberate  aim,  fired.  One  of  the  dragoons  fell,  another 
was  wounded,  and  the  whole  were  for  a  moment  checked  and 
thrown  in  confusion.  The  robbers  loaded  again  in  an  instant. 
The  dragoons  had  discharged  their  carbines,  but  without  appa- 
rent effect ;  they  received  another  volley,  which,  though  none 
fell,  threw  them  again  into  confusion.  The  robbers  were  load- 
ing a  second  time,  when  they  saw  the  foot  soldiers  at  hand. — 
"Scainpa  via!''  was  the  word.  They  abandoned  their  prey, 
and  retreated  up  the  rocks;  the  soldiers  after  them.  They 
fought  from  cliff  to  cliff,  and  bush  to  bush,  the  robbers  turning 
every  now  and  then  to  fire  upon  their  pursuers ;  the  soldiers 
scrambling  after  them,  and  discharging  their  muskets  when- 
ever they  could  get  a  chance.  Sometimes  a  soldier  or  a  robber 
was  shot  down,  and  came  tumbling  among  the  cliffs.  The  dra- 
goons kept  firing  from  below,  whenever  a  robber  came  in 
sight. 

The  Englishman  hastened  to  the  scene  of  action,  and  the 
balls  discharged  at  the  dragoons  had  whistled  past  him  as  he 
advanced.  One  object,  however,  engrossed  his  attention.  It 
was  the  beautiful  Venetian  lady  in  the  hands  of  two  of  the  rob- 
bers,  who,  during  the  confusion  of  the  fight,  carried  her  shriek 
ing  up  the  mountains.  He  saw  her  dress  gleaming  among  the 
bushes,  and  he  sprang  up  the  rocks  to  intercept  the  robbers  as 
they  bore  off  their  prey.  The  ruggedness  of  the  steep  and  the 
entanglements  of  the  bushes,  delayed  and  impeded  him.  He 
lost  sight  of  the  lady,  but  was  still  guided  by  her  cries,  which 
grew  fainter  and  fainter.  They  were  off  to  the  left,  while  the 
report  of  muskets  showed  that  the  battle  was  raging  to  the 
right. 

At  length  he  came  upon  what  appeared  to  be  a  rugged  foot- 
path, faintly  worn  in  a  gully  of  the  rock,  and  beheld  the  ruf 


Tllh:  STOJiY  OF  Till.    YOtJNQ    UOBBER  gOfl 

fians  at  some  distance  hurrying  tne  laxlj  up  the  defile.  On<'  < 
them  hearing  his  approach  let  go  his  rrey,  advanced  towards 
him.  and  levelling  the  carbine  which  had  been  slung  on  his 
back,  fired.  The  ball  whizzed  through  the  Englishman's  hat. 
and  carried  with  it  some  of  his  hair.  He  returned  the  fire  with 
one  of  his  pistols,  and  the  robber  fell.  The  other  brigand  now 
dropped  the  lady,  and  drawing  a  long  pistol  from  his  belt,  fired 
on  his  ad  versa  y  with  deliberate  aim ;  the  ball  passed  between 
his  left  arm  and  his  side,  slightly  wounding  the  arm.  The 
Englishman  advanced  and  discharged  his  remaining  pistol, 
which  wounded  the  robber,  but  not  severely.  The  brigand 
drew  a  stiletto,  and  rushed  upon  his  adversary,  who  eluded  the 
blow,  receiving  merely  a  slight  wound,  and  defending  himself 
with  his  pistol,  which  had  a  spring  bayonet.  They  closed  with 
one  another,  and  a  desperate  struggle  ensued.  The  robber  was 
a  square-built,  thick-set,  man,  powerful,  muscular,  and  active. 
The  Englishman,  though  of  larger  frame  and  greater  strength, 
was  less  active  and  less  accustomed  to  athletic  exercises  and 
feats  of  hardihood,  but  he  showed  himself  practised  and  skilled 
in  the  art  of  defence.  They  were  on  a  craggy  height,  and  the 
Englishman  perceived  that  his  antagonist  was  striving  to  press 
hini  to  the  edge. 

A  side  glance  showed  him  also  the  robber  whom  he  had  first 
wounded,  scrambling  up  to  the  assistance  of  his  comrade,  sti- 
letto in  hand.  He  had,  in  fact,  attained  the  summit  of  the  cliff, 
and  the  Englishman  saw  him  within  a  few  steps,  when  he  heard 
suddenly  the  report  of  a  pistol  and  the  ruffian  fell.  The  shot 
came  from  John,  who  had  arrived  just  in  time  to  save  his 
master. 

The  remaining  robber,  exhausted  by  loss  of  blood  and  the 
violence  of  the  contest,  showed  signs  of  faltering.  His  adver- 
sary pursued  his  advantage ;  pressed  on  him,  and  as  his  strength 
relaxed,  dashed  him  headlong  from  the  precipice.  He  looked 
after  him  and  saw  him  lying  motionless  among  the  rocks  below. 

The  Englishman  now  sought  the  fair  Venetian.  He  found 
her  senseless  on  the  ground.  With  his  servant  s  assistance  he 
bore  her  down  to  the  road,  where  her  husband  was  raving  like 
one  distracted. 

The  occasional  discharge  of  fire-arms  along  the  height  showed 
that  a  retreating  fight  was  still  kept  up  by  the  robbers.  The 
carriage  was  righted;  the  baggage  was  hastily  replaced;  the 
Venetian,  transported  with  joy  and  gratitude,  took  his  lovely 
and  senseless  burthen  in  his  arms,  and  the  party  resumed  their 


29$  TALES   or    i    TJiA  YEl.l.iCH. 

route  towards  Fondi.  escorted  by   the  dragoons.   Leaving  the 
foot  soldiers  to  ferret  out  the  banditti. 

While  on  the  way  John  dressed  his  master's  wounds,  Avhich 
were  found  not  to  be  serious. 

Before  arriving  at  Fondi  the  fair  Venetian  had  recovered 
from  her  swoon,  and  was  made  conscious  of  her  safety  and  of 
the  mode  of  her  deliverance.  Her  transports  were  unbounded 
and  mingled  with  them  were  enthusiastic  ejaculations  of  grata 
tude  to  her  deliverer.  A  thousand  times  did  she  reproach  her 
self  for  having  accused  him  of  coldness  and  insensibility.  The 
moment  she  saw  him  she  rushed  into  his  arms,  and  clasped 
him  round  the  neck  with  all  the  vivacity  of  her  nation. 

Never  was  man  more  embarrassed  by  the  embraces  of  a  fine 
w<»man. 

•■  My  deliverer!  my  angel !''  exclaimed  she. 
'  Tut :  tut !"  said  the  Englishman. 

"  You  are  wounded!"  shrieks!  the  lair  Venetian,  as  she  saw 
the  blood  upon  his  clothes. 

"Pooh — nothing  at  all !*' 

•'0  Dio!"  exclaimed  she.  clasping  him  again  round  the  neck 
and  sobbing  on  lus  bosom. 

"Pooh!v    exclaimed    the    Englishman,    looking    somewhat 
foolish ;  k '  this  is  all  nonsense.  " 


TALES  OF  A  TRAVELLER. 


PART  FOURTH. 


THE  MONEY  DIGGERS. 

FOUND   AMONG   THE    PAPERS   OF   THE   LATE    DIEDKICH   KNICKERBOCKER. 

Now  I  remember*  those  old  women's  words 
Who  iu  my  youth  would  tell  me  winter's  tales; 
And  speak  of  spirits  and  ghosts  that  glide  by  night 
About  the  place  where  treasure  had  been  hid. 

Marluw's  Jew  of  Malta. 

HELL  GATE. 

About  six  miles  from  the  renowned  city  of  the  Manhattoes, 
and  in  that  Sound,  or  arm  of  the  sea,  which  passes  between  the 
main  land  and  Nassau  or  Long  Island,  there  is  a  narrow  strait, 
where  the  current  is  violently  compressed  between  shouldering 
promontories,  and  horribly  irritated  and  perplexed  by  rocks 
and  shoals.  Being  at  the  best  of  times  a  very  violent,  hasty 
current,  its  takes  these  impediments  in  mighty  dudgeon :  boil- 
ing in  whirlpools ;  brawling  and  fretting  in  ripples  and  break- 
ers; and,  in  short,  indulging  in  all  kinds  of  wrong-headed 
paroxysms.  At  such  times,  woe  to  any  unlucky  vessel  that 
ventures  within  its  clutches. 

This  termagant  humor  is  said  to  prevail  only  at  half  tides. 
At  low  water  it  is  as  pacific  as  any  other  stream.  As  the  tid<> 
rises,  it  begins  to  fret ;  at  half  tide  it  rages  and  roars  as  if  bel- 
lowing for  more  water;  but  when  the  tide  is  full  it  relapses 
again  into  quiet,  and  for  a  time  seems  almost  to  sleep  as 
Roundly  as  an  alderman  after  dinner,  it  may  be  compared  to 
an  inveterate  hard  drinker,  who  is  a  peaceable  fellow  enough 
when  he  has  no  liquor  at  all,  or  when  he  has  a  skin  full,  but 
when  half  seas  over  plays  the  very  devil. 


208  TALES  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

This  mighty,  blustering,  bullying  little  strait  was  a  place  of 
great  difficulty  and  danger  to  the  Dutch  navigators  of  ancient 
days;  hectoring  their  tub-built  barks  in  a  most  unruly  style; 
whirling  them  about,  in  a  manner  to  make  any  but  a  Dutch- 
man giddy,  and  not  unfrequently  stranding  them  upon  rocks 
and  reefs.  Whereupon  out  of  sheer  spleen  they  denominated 
it  Hellegat  (literally  Hell  Gut)  and  solemnly  gave  it  over  to  the 
devil.  This  appellation  has  since  been  aptly  rendered  into 
English  by  the  name  of  Hell  Gate;  and  into  nonsense  by  the 
name  of  Hurl  Gate,  according  to  certain  foreign  intruders  who 
neither  understood  Dutch  nor  English.— May  St.  Nicholas  con- 
found them ! 

From  this  strait  to  the  city  of  the  Manhattoes  the  borders  of 
the  Sound  are  greatly  diversified;  in  one  part,  on  the  eastern 
shore  of  the  island  of  Manhata  and  opposite  Blackwell's  Island, 
being  very  much  broken  and  indented  by  rocky  nooks,  over- 
hung with  trees  which  give  them  a  wild  and  romantic  look. 

The  flux  and  reflux  of  the  tide  through  this  part  of  the  Sound 
is  extremely  rapid,  and  the  navigation  troublesome,  by  reason 
of  the  whirling  eddies  and  counter  currents.  I  speak  this  from 
experience,  having  been  much  of  a  navigator  of  these  small 
seas  in  my  boyhood,  and  having  more  than  once  run  the  risk 
of  shipwreck  and  drowning  in  the  course  of  divers  holiday  voy- 
ages, to  which  in  common  with  the  Dutch  urchins  I  was  rather 
prone. 

In  the  midst  of  this  perilous  strait,  and  hard  by  a  group  of 
rocks  called  ''the  Hen  and  Qhickens,"  there  lay  in  my  boyish 
days  the  wreck  of  a  vessel  which  had  been  entangled  in  the 
whirlpools  and  stranded  during  a  storm.  There  was  some  wild 
story  about  this  being  the  wreck  of  a  pirate,  and  of  some 
bloody  murder,  connected  with  it,  which  I  cannot  now  recol- 
lect. Indeed,  the  desolate  look  of  this  forlorn  hulk,  and  the 
fearful  place  where  it  lay  rotting,  were  sufficient  to  awaken 
strange  notions  concerning  it.  A  row  of  timber  heads,  black- 
ened by  time,  peered  above  the  surface  at  high  water ;  but  at 
low  tide  a  considerable  part  of  the  hull  was  bare,  and  its  great 
ribs  or  timbers,  partly  stripped  of  their  planks,  looked  like  the 
skeleton  of  some  sea  monster.  There  was  also  the  stump  of  a 
mast,  with  a  few  ropes  and  blocks  swinging  about  and  wiiist- 
ling  in  the  wind,  while  the  sea  gull  wheeled  and  screamed 
around  this  melancholy  carcass. 

The  stories  connected  with  this  wreck  made  it  an  object  of 
great  awe  to  my  boyish  fancy  ;  but  in  truth  the  whole  neigh- 


KTDD   THE   ^TRATB.  209 

borhood  was  full  of  fable  and  romance  for  me,  abounding  with 
traditions  about  pirates,  hobgoblins,  and  buried  money.  As  I 
grew  to  more  mature  years  I  made  many  re  3  after  the 

truth  of  these  strange  traditions;  for  I  have  always  been  a 
curious  investigator  of  the  valuable,  but  obscure  branches  of 
the  history  of  my  native  province.  I  found  infinite  difficulty, 
however,  in  arriving  at  any  precise  information.  In  seeking 
to  dig  up  one  fact  it  is  incredible  the  number  of  fables  which  I 
unearthed ;  for  the  whole  course  of  the  Sound  seemed  in  my 
younger  days  to  be  like  the  straits  of  Pylorus  of  yore,  the  very 
region  of  fiction.  I  will  say  nothing  of  the  Devil's  Stepping 
Stones,  by  which  that  arch  fiend  made  his  retreat  from  Con- 
necticut to  Long  Island,  seeing  that  the  subject  is  likely  to  be 
learnedly  treated  by  a  worthy  friend  and  contemporary  his- 
torian* whom  I  have  furnished  with  particulars  thereof. 
Neither  will  I  say  anything  of  the  black  man  in  a  three-cor- 
nered hat,  seated  in  the  stern  of  a  jolly  boat  who  used  to  be 
seen  about  Hell  Gate  in  stormy  weather ;  and  who  went  by  the 
name  of  the  Pirate's  Spuke.  or  Pirate's  Ghost,  because  I  never 
could  meet  with  any  person  of  stanch  credibility  who  professed 
to  have  seen  this  spectrum ;  unless  it  were  the  widow  of  Manus 
Conklin,  the  blacksmith  of  Frog's  Neck,  but  then,  poor  woman, 
she  was  a  little  purblind,  and  might  have  been  mistaken; 
though  they  said  she  saw  farther  than  other  folks  in  the  dark. 
All  this,  however,  was  but  little  satisfactory  in  regard  to  the 
tales  of  buried  money  about  which  I  was  most  curious ;  and  the 
following  was  all  that  I  could  for  a  long  time  collect  that  had 
anything  like  an  air  of  authenticity. 


KIDD  THE  PIRATE. 

In  old  times,  just  after  the  territory  of  the  New  Netherlands 
had  boon  wrested  from  the  hands  of  their  High  Mightin 
the  Lords  States  General  of  Holland,  by  Charles  the  Second, 
and  while  it  was  as  yet  in  an  unquiet  state,  the  province  was  a 
favorite  resort  of  adventurers  of  all  kinds,  and  particularly  of 
buccaneers.     These  were  piratical  rovers  of  the  deep,  who  made 

*  For  a  very  interesting  account  of  the  Devil  and  his  Stepping  Stones,  Bee  the 
learned  memoir  read  be  iciety  since 

eminent  jurist  of  the  |  ; 


210  TALES  OF  A   TEA  VELLEK. 

sad  work  in  times  of  peace- among  the  Spanish  settlements  and 
Spanish  merchant  ships.  They  took  advantage  of  the  easy  ac- 
cess to  the  harbor  of  the  Manhattoes,  and  of  the  laxity  of  its 
scarcely-organized  government,  to  make  it  a  kind  of  rendez- 
vous, where  they  might  dispose  of  their  ill-gotten  spoils,  and 
concert  new  depredations.  Crews  of  these  desperadoes,  the 
runagates  of  every  country  and  clime,  might  be  seen  swagger 
ing,  in  open  day,  about  the  streets  of  the  little  burgh ;  elbowing 
its  quiet  Mynheers;  trafficking  away  their  rich  outlandish 
launder,  at  half  price,  to  the  wary  merchant,  and  then  squan- 
dering their  gains  in  taverns;  drinking,  gambling,  singing, 
swearing,  shouting,  and  astounding  the  neighborhood  with 
sudden  brawl  and  ruffian  revelry. 

At  length  the  indignation  of  government  was  aroused,  and  it 
was  determined  to  ferret  out  this  vermin  brood  from  the  colo- 
noies.  Great  consternation  took  place  among  the  pirates  on 
finding  justice  in  pursuit  of  them,  and  their  old  haunts  turned 
to  places  of  peril.  They  secreted  their  money  and  jewels  in 
lonely  out-of-the-way  places ;  buried  them  about  the  wild  shores 
of  the  rivers  and  sea-coast,  and  dispersed  themselves  over  the 
face  of  the  country. 

Among  the  agents  employed  to  hunt  them  by  sea  was  the 
renowned  Captain  Kidd.  He  had  long  been  a  hardy  adven- 
turer, a  kind  of  equivocal  borderer,  half  trader,  half  smuggler, 
with  a  tolerable  dash  of  the  pickaroon.  He  had  traded  for 
some  time  among  the  pirates,  lurking  about  the  seas  in  a  little 
rakish,  musquito-built  vessel,  prying  into  all  kinds  of  odd  places, 
as  busy  as  a  Mother  Carey's  chicken  in  a  gale  of  wind. 

This  nondescript  personage  was  pitched  upon  by  government 
as  the  very  man  to  command  a  vessel  fitted  out  to  cruise 
against  the  pirates,  since  he  knew  all  their  haunts  and  lurking- 
places  :  acting  upon  the  shrewd  old  maxim  of  ' '  setting  a  rogue 
to  catch  a  rogue. "  Kidd  accordingly  sailed  from  New  York  in 
the  Adventure  galley,  gallantly  armed  and  duly  commissioned, 
and  steered  his  course  to  the  Madeiras,  to  Bonavista,  to  Mada- 
gascar, and  cruised  at  the  entrance  of  the  Red  Sea.  Instead, 
however,  of  making  war  upon  the  pirates,  he  turned  pirate 
himself:  captured  friend  or  foe ;  enriched  himself  with  the  spoils 
of  a  wealthy  Indiaman,  manned  by  Moors,  though  commanded 
by  an  Englishman,  and  having  disposed  of  his  prize,  had  the 
hardihood  to  return  to  Boston,  laden  with  wealth,  with  a  crew 
of  his  comrades  at  his  heels. 

His  fame  had  preceded  him.     The  alarm  was  given  of  the 


KTPD   TBR  PTRA  TB.  y|  I 

reappearance  nf  this  cut-purse  uf  the  ocean.  Measures  were 
taken  for  his  arrest ;  but  he  had  time,  it  is  said,  to  bury  the 
greater  part  of  his  treasures.  Be  even  attempted  to  draw  his 
sword  and  defend  himself  when  arrested;  but  was  secured  and 
thrown  inth  prison,  with  several  of  his  followers.  They  were 
carried  to  England  in  a  frigate,  where  they  were  tried,  con- 
demned, and  hanged  at  Execution  Dock.  Kidd  died  hard,  foi 
he  rope  with  which  he  was  first  tied  up  broke  with  his  weight 
and  he  tumbled  to  the  ground;  he  was  tied  up  a  second  time, 
and  effectually;  from  whence  arose  the  story  of  his  having 
been  twice  hanged. 

Such  is  the  main  outline  of  Kidd's  history ;  but  it  has  given 
birth  to  an  innumerable  progeny  of  traditions.  The  circum- 
stance of  his  having  buried  great  treasures  of  gold  and  jewels 
after  returning  from  his  cruising  set  the  brains  of  all  the  good 
people  along  the  coast  in  a  ferment.  There  were  rumors  on 
rumors  of  great  sums  found  here  and  there ;  sometimes  in  one 
part  of  the  country,  sometimes  in  another ;  of  trees  and  rocks 
bearing  mysterious  marks ;  doubtless  indicating  the  spots  where 
treasure  lay  hidden.  Of  coins  found  with  Moorish  characters, 
the  plunder  of  Kidd's  eastern  prize,  but  which  the  common 
people  took  for  diabolical  or  magic  inscriptions. 

Some  reported  the  spoils  to  have  been  buried  in  solitary  un- 
settled places  about  Plymouth  and  Cape  Cod ;  many  other  parts 
of  the  Eastern  coast,  also,  and  various  places  in  Long  Island 
Sound,  have  been  gilded  by  these  rumors,  and  have  been  ran- 
sacked by  adventueous  money-diggers. 

In  all  the  stories  of  these  enterprises  the  devil  played  a  con- 
spicuous part.  Either  he  was  conciliated  by  ceremonies  and 
invocations,  or  some  bargain  or  compact  was  made  with  him. 
Still  he  was  sine  to  play  the  money-diggers  some  slippery  trick. 
Some  had  succeeded  so  far  as  to  touch  the  iron  chest  which 
contained  the  treasure,  when  some  bafflng  circumstance  Avar 
sure  to  take  place.  Either  the  earth  would  fall  in  and  fill  up 
the  pit  or  some  direful  noise  or  apparition  would  throw  the 
party  into  a  panic  and  frighten  them  from  the  place;  and 
sometimes  the  devil  himself  would  appear  and  bear  off  the  prize 
from  then  very  grasp ;  and  if  they  visited  the  place  on  the  next 
day,  not  a  trace  would  be  seen  of  their  labors  of  the  preceding 
night. 

Such  were  the  vague  rumors  which  for  a  long  time  tantalized 
without  gratifying  my  curiosity  on  the  interesting  subjeei  of 
these  pirate  traditions.     There  is  nothing  in  this  world  eo  hard 


212  TALES  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

to  get  at  as  truth.  I  sought  among  my  favorite  sources  of 
authentic  information,  the  oldest  inhabitants,  and  particularly 
the  old  Dutch  wiues  of  the  province ;  but  though  I  flatter  ruyselL* 
I  am  better  versed  than  most  men  in  the  curious  history  of  my 
native  province,  yet  f&r  a  long  time  my  inquiries  were  un- 
attended with  any  substantial  result. 

At  length  it  happened,  one  calm  day  in  the  latter  part  of 
summer,  that  I  was  relaxing  myself  from  the  toils  of  severe 
study  by  a  day's  amusement  in  fishing  in  those  waters  which 
had  been  the  favorite  resort  of  my  boyhood.  I  was  in  company 
with  several  worthy  burghers  of  my  native  city.  Our  sport 
was  indifferent ;  the  fish  did  not  bite  freely ;  and  we  had  fre- 
quently changed  our  fishing  ground  without  bettering  our 
luck.  We  at  length  anchored  close  under  a  ledge  of  rocky 
coast,  on  the  eastern  side  of  the  island  of  Manhata.  It  was  a 
still,  warm  day.  The  stream  whirled  and  dimpled  by  us  with- 
out a  wave  or  even  a  ripple,  and  every  thing  was  so  calm  and 
quiet  that  it  was  almost  startling  when  the  kingfisher  would 
pitch  himsel  from  the  branch  of  some  dry  tree,  and  after  sus- 
pending himself  for  a  moment  in  the  air  to  take  his  aim,  would 
souse  into  the  smooth  water  after  his  prey.  While  we  were 
lolling  in  our  boat,  half  drowsy  with  the  warm  stillness  of  the 
day  and  the  dullness  of  our  sport,  one' of  our  party,  a  worthy 
alderman,  was  overtaken  by  a  slumber,  and,  as  he  dozed,  suf- 
fered the  sinker  of  his  drop-line  to  lie  upon  the  bottom  of  the 
river.  On  waking,  he  found  he  had  caught  something  of 
importance,  from  the  weight-  on  drawing  it  to  the  surface,  we 
were  much  surprised  to  find  a  long  pistol  of  very  curious  and 
outlandish  fashion,  which,  from  its  rusted  condition,  and  its 
stock  being  worm-eaten  and  covered  with  barnacles,  appeared 
to  have  been  a  long  time  under  water.  The  unexpected  appear- 
ance of  this  document  of  warfare  occasioned  much  speculation 
among  my  pacific  companions.  One  supposed  it  to  have  fallen 
there  during  the  revolutionary  war.  Another,  from  the  peculi 
arity  of  its  fashion,  attributed  it  to  the  voyagers  in  the  earliest 
days  of  the  settlement;  perchance  to  the  renowned  Adrian 
Block,  who  explored  the  Sound  and  discovered  Block  Island, 
since  so  noted  for  its  cheese.  But  a  third,  after  regarding  it 
for  some  time,  pronounced  it  to  be  of  veritable  Spanish  work 
manship. 

''I'll  warrant,"  said  he,  "  if  this  pistol  could  talk  it  would  tell 
strange  stories  of  hard  fights  among  the  Spanish  Dons.  I've 
not  a  doubt  but  it's  arelique  of  the  buccaneers  of  old  times." 


TEE  DEVIL   AND    TOM    WALKER.  O/JO 

"Like  enough,"  said  another  of   the  parly.     "There 
Bradish  the  pirate,  who  at  the  time  Lord  Bellamont  made  such 
a  stir  after  the  buccaneers,  buried  money  and  jewels  some- 
where in  these  parts  or  on  Long-Island ;  and  then  there  was 
Captain  Kidd— " 

•'  Ah,  that  Kidd  was  a  daring  dog,"  said  an  iron-faced  Cape 
Cod  whaler.  "There's  a  fine  old  song  about  him,  all  to  the 
tune  of 

'My  name  is  Robert  Kidd, 
As  I  sailed,  as  I  sailed.' 

And  it  tells  how  he  gained  the  devil's  good  graces  by  burying 
the  Bible: 

'I  had  the  Bible  in  my  baud, 

As  I  sailed,  as  I  sailed, 
And  I  buried  it  in  tbe  sand, 
As  1  sailed.' 

Egad,  if  this  pistol  had  belonged  to  him  I  should  set  some 
store  by  it  out  of  sheer  curiosity.  Ah,  well,  there's  an  odd  story 
I  have  heard  about  one  Tom  Walker,  who,  they  say,  dug  up 
some  of  Kidd's  buried  money ;  and  as  the  fish  don't  seem  to 
bite  at  present,  111  tell  it  to  you  to  pass  away  time." 


THE  DEVIL  AND  TOM  WALKER. 

A  few  miles  from  Boston,  in  Massachusetts,  there  is  a  deep 
inlet  winding  several  miles  into  the  interior  of  the  country 
from  Charles  Bay,  and  terminating  in  a  thickly-wooded 
swamp,  or  morass.  On  one  side  of  this  inlet  is  a  beautiful 
dark  grove ;  on  the  opposite  side  the  land  rises  abruptly  from  the 
water's  edge,  into  a  high  ridge  on  which  grow  a  few  scattered 
oaks  of  great  age  and  immense  size.  It  was  under  one  of  these 
gigantic  trees,  according  to  old  stories,  that  Kidd  the  pirate 
buried  his  treasure.  The  inlet  allowed  a  facility  to  bring  the 
money  in  a  boat  secretly  and  at  night  to  the  very  foot  of  the 
hill.  The  elevation  of  the  place  permitted  a  good  look-out  to  be 
kept  that  no  one  was  at  hand,  while  the  remarkable  trees 
formed  good  landmarks  by  which  the  place  might  easily  be 
found  again.  The  old  stories  add,  moreover,  that  the  devil 
presided  at  the  hiding  of  the  money,  and  took  it  under  his 
guardianship ;  but  this,  it  is  well-known,  he  always  does  with 


:2\.\  TALES   OF  A    TRA  I 

buried  treasure,  particularly  when  it  has  been  ill  gotten.  Be 
that  as  it  may,  Kidd  never  returned  to  recover  his  wealth; 
being  shortly  after  seized  at  Boston,  sent  out  to  England,  and 
there  hanged  for  a  pirate. 

About  the  year  1727,  just  at  the  time  when  earthquakes  were 
prevalent  in  New-England,  and  shook  many  tall  sinners  down 
upon  their  knees,  there  lived  near  this  place  a  meagre  miserly 
fellow  of  the  name  of  Tom  Walker.  He  had  a  wife  as  miserly 
inself;  they  were  so  miserly  that  they  even  conspired  to 
cheat  each  other.  Whatever  the  woman  could  lay  hands  on 
she  hid  away ;  a  hen  could  not  cackle  but  she  was  on  the  alert 
to  secure  the  new-laid  egg.  Her  husband  was  continually 
prying  about  to  detect  her  secret  hoards,  and  many  and  fierce 
were  the  conflicts  that  took  place  about  what  ought  to  have 
been  common  property.  They  lived  in  a  forlorn -looking  house, 
that  stood  alone  and  had  an  air  of  starvation.  A  few  straggling 
savin  trees,  emblems  of  sterility,  grew  near  it;  no  smoke  ever 
curled  from  its  chimney;  no  traveller  stopped  at  its  door. 
A  miserable  horse,  whose  ribs  were  as  articulate  as  the  bars  of 
a  gridiron,  stalked  about  a  field  where  a  thin  carpet  of  moss, 
scarcely  covering  the  ragged  beds  of  pudding-stone,  tantalized 
and  balked  his  hunger ;  and  sometimes  he  would  lean  his  head 
over  the  fence,  looked  piteously  at  the  passer-by,  and  seem  to 
petition  deliverance  from  this  land  of  famine.  The  house  and 
its  inmates  had  altogether  a  bad  name.  Tom's  wife  was  a  tall 
termagant,  fierce  of  temper,  loud  of  tongue,  and  strong  of  arm. 
Her  voice  was  often  heard  in  wordy  warfare  with  her  husband ; 
and  his  face  sometimes  showed  signs  that  their  conflicts  were 
not  confined  to  words.  No  one  ventured,  however,  to  interfere 
between  them ;  the  lonely  wayfarer  shrunk  within  himself  at 
the  horrid  clamor  and  clapper-clawing;  eyed  the  den  of  discord 
askance,  and  hurried  on  his  way,  rejoicing,  if  a  bachelor,  in 
his  celibacy. 

One  day  that  Tom  Walker  had  been  to  a  distant  part  of  the 
neighborhood,  he  took  what  he  considered  a  short  cut  home- 
wards through  the  swamp.  Like  most  short  cuts,  it  was  an 
ill-chosen  route.  The  swamp  was  thickly  grown  with  great 
gloomy  pines  and  hemlocks,  some  of  them  ninety  feet  high; 
which  made  it  dark  at  noon-day,  and  a  retreat  for  all  the  owls 
of  the  neighborhood.  It  was  full  of  pits  and  quagmires,  partly 
covered  with  weeds  and  mosses ;  where  the  green  surface  often 
betrayed  the  traveller  into  a  gulf  of  black  smothering  mud ; 
there  were  also  dark  and  stagnant  pools,  the  abodes  of  the  tad- 


THE  DEVIL  AND   TOM    WALKER.  glfi 

pole,  the  bull-frog,  and  the  water-snake,  and  where  trunks  of 
pines  and  hemlocks  lay  half  drowned,  half  rotting,  looking 
like  alligators,  sleeping  in  the  mire. 

Tom  had  long  been  picking  his  way  cautiously  through  this 
treacherous  forest ;  stepping  from  tuft  to  tuft  of  rushes  and 
roots  which  afforded  precarious  footholds  among  deep  sloughs ; 
or  pacing  carefully,  like  a  cat,  among  the  prostrate  trunks  of 
trees ;  startled  now  and  then  by  the  sudden  screaming  of  the 
bittern,  or  the  quacking  of  a  wild  duck,  rising  on  the  wing  from 
some  solitary  pool.  At  length  he  arrived  at  a  piece  of  firm 
ground,  which  ran  out  like  a  peninsula  into  the  deep  bosom  of 
the  swamp.  It  had  been  one  of  the  strongholds  of  the  Indians 
during  their  wars  with  the  first  colonists.  Here  they  had 
thrown  up  a  kind  of  fort  which  they  had  looked  upon  as  almost 
impregnable,  and  had  used  as  a  place  of  refuge  for  their  squaws 
and  children.  Nothing  remained  of  the  Indian  fort  but  a  few 
embankments  gradually  sinking  to  the  level  of  the  surrounding- 
earth,  and  already  overgrown  in  part  by  oaks  and  other  forest 
trees,  the  foliage  of  which  formed  a  contrast  to  the  dark  pines 
and  hemlocks  of  the  swamp. 

It  was  late  in  the  dusk  of  evening  that  Tom  Walker  reached 
the  old  fort,  and  he  paused  there  for  a  while  to  rest  himself. 
Any  one  but  he  would  have  felt  unwilling  to  linger  in  this 
lonely,  melancholy  place,  for  the  common  people  had  a  bad 
opinion  of  it  from  the  stories  handed  down  from  the  time  of 
the  Indian  wars ;  when  it  was  asserted  that  the  savages  held 
incantations  here  and  made  sacrifices  to  the  evil  spirit.  Tom 
"Walker,  however,  was  not  a  man  to  be  troubled  with  any  fears 
of  the  kind. 

He  reposed  himself  for  some  time  on  the  trunk  of  a  fallen 
hemlock,  listening  to  the  boding  .cry  of  the  tree-toad,  and  delv- 
ing with  his  walking-staff  into  a  mound  of  black  mould  at  his 
feet.  As  he  turned  up  the  soil  unconsciously,  his  staff  struck 
against  something  hard.  He  raked  it  out  of  the  vegetable 
mould,  and  lo!  a  cloven  skull  with  an  Indian  tomahawk  buried 
deep  in  it,  lay  before  him.  The  rust  on  the  weapon  showed  the 
time  that  had  elapsed  since  this  death  blow  had  been  giver.. 
It  was  a  dreary  memento  of  the  fierce  struggle  that  had  taken 
place  in  this  last  foothold  of  the  Indian  warriors. 

"Humph!"  said  Tom  Walker,  as  he  gave  the  skull  .1  kick  t<- 
shake  the  dirt  from  it, 

"  Let  that  skull  alone !"  said  a  gruff  voice. 

Tom  lifted  up  his  eyes  and  beheld  a  great  black  man,  se 


216  TALE'S  OF  A    TEA  YELLER. 

directly  opposite  him  on  the  stump  of  a  tree.  He  was  exceed- 
ingly surprised,  having  neither  seen  nor  heard  any  one  approach, 
and  he  was  still  more  perplexed  on  observing,  as  well  as  the 
gathering  gloom  would  permit,  that  the  stranger  was  neither 
negro  nor  Indian.  It  is  true,  he  was  dressed  in  a  rude,  half 
Indian  garb,  and  had  a  red  belt  or  sash  swathed  round  his  body, 
but  his  face  was  neither  black  nor  copper  color,  but  swarthy 
and  dingy  and  begrimed  with  soot,  as  if  he  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  toil  among  tires  and  forges.  He  had  a  shock  of  coarse 
black  hair,  that  stood  out  from  his  head  in  all  directions ;  and 
bore  an  axe  on  his  shoulder. 

He  scowled  for  a  moment  at  Tom  with  a  pair  of  great  red 
eyes. 

"What  are  you  doing  in  my  grounds?"  said  the  black  man, 
with  a  hoarse  growling  voice. 

"Your  grounds?1'  said  Tom,  with  a  sneer;  "no  more  your 
grounds  than  mine:  they  belong  to  Deacon  Peabody." 

" Deacon Peabody  be  d d,"  said  the  stranger,  "  as  I  natter 

myself  he  will  be,  if  he  does  not  look  more  to  his  own  sins  and 
less  to  his  neighbor's.  Look  yonder,  and  see  how  Deacon  Pea- 
body is  faring. " 

Tom  looked  in  the  direction  that  the  stranger  pointed,  and 
beheld  one  of  the  great  trees,  fair  and  nourishing  without,  but 
rotten  at  the  core,  and  saw  that  it  had  been  nearly  hewn 
through,  so  that  the  first  high  wind  was  likely  to  blow  it  down. 
On  the  bark  of  the  tree  was  scored  the  name  of  Deacon  Pea- 
body. He  now  looked  round  and  found  most  of  the  tall  trees 
marked  with  the  names  of  some  great  men  of  the  colony,  and 
all  more  or  less  scored  by  the  axe.  The  one  on  which  he  had 
been  seated,  and  which  had  evidently  just  been  hewn  down, 
bore  the  name  of  Crowninshield ;  and  he  recollected  a  mighty 
rich  man  of  that  name,  who  made  a  vulgar  display  of  wealth, 
which  it  was  whispered  he  had  acquired  by  buccaneering. 

"He's  just  ready  for  burning!"  said  the  black  man,  with  ;i 
growl  of  triumph.  "  You  see  I  am  likely  to  have  a  good  stock 
of  firewood  for  winter." 

"But  what  right  have  you,"  said  Tom,  "to  cut  down  Deacon 
Peabody 's  timber?" 

"The  right  of  prior  claim, "  said  the  other.  "This  woodland 
belonged  to  me  long  before  one  of  your  white-faced  race  put 
foot  upon  the  soil. " 

"And  pray,  who  are  you,  if  I  may  be  so  bold?"  said  Tom. 

i{  Oh,  I  go  by  various  names.    I  am  the  Wild  Huntsman  in 


THE  DEVIL    AND   TOM   WALKER.  217 

some  countries;  the  Black  Miner  in  others.  In  this  neighbor- 
hood I  am  known  by  the  name  of  the  Black  Woodsman.  I  am 
he  to  whom  the  red  men  devoted  this  spot,  and  now  and  then 
roasted  a  white  man  by  way  of  sweet-smelling  sacrifice.  Since 
the  red  men  have  been  exterminated  by  you  white  savages,  1 
amuse  myself  by  presiding  at  the  persecutions  of  quakers  and 
anabaptists ;  I  am  the  great  patron  and  prompter  of  slave  dea- 
ierSj  and  the  grand  master  of  the  Salem  witches." 

"The  upshot  of  all  which  is,  that,  if  I  mistake  not,"  said 
Tom,  sturdily,  "you  are  he  commonly  called  Old  Scratch." 

"The  same  at  your  service!"  replied  the  black  man,  with  a 
half  civil  nod. 

Such  was  the  opening  of  this  interview,  according  to  the  old 
story,  though  it  has  almost  too  familiar  an  air  to  be  credited. 
One  would  think  that  to  meet  with  such  a  singular  personage 
in  this  wild,  lonely  place,  would  have  shaken  any  man's  nerves : 
but  Tom  was  a  hard-minded  fellow,  not  easily  daunted,  and  he 
had  lived  so  long  with  a  termagant  wife,  that  he  did  not  even 
fear  the  devil. 

It  is  said  that  after  this  commencement  they  had  a  long  and 
earnest  conversation  together,  as  Tom  returned  homewards. 
The  black  man  told  him  of  great  sums  of  money  which  had 
been  buried  by  Kidd  the  pirate,  under  the  oak  trees  on  the  high 
ridge  not  far  from  the  morass.  All  these  were  under  his  com- 
mand and  protected  by  his  power,  so  that  none  could  find  them 
but  such  as  propitiated  his  favor.  These  he  offered  to  place 
within  Tom  Walker's  reach,  having  conceived  an  especial  kind- 
ness for  him:  but  they  were  to  be  had  only  on  certain  con- 
ditions. What  these  conditions  were,  may  easily  be  surmised, 
though  Tom  never  disclosed  them  publicly.  They  must  have 
been  very  hard,  for  he  required  time  to  think  of  them,  and  he 
was  not  a  man  to  stick  at  trifles  where  money  was  in  view. 
When  they  had  reached  the  edge  of  the  swamp  the  stranger 
paused. 

"What  proof  have  I  that  all  you  have  been  telling  me  is 
true?"  said  Tom. 

"There  is  my  signature,"  said  the  black  man,  pressing  his 
finger  on  Tom's  forehead.  So  saying,  he  turned  off  among  the 
thickets  of  the  swamp,  and  seemed,  as  Tom  said,  to  go  down, 
down,  down,  into  the  earth,  until  nothing  but  his  head  and 
shoulders  could  be  seen,  and  so  on  until  he  totally  disap- 
peared. 

When  Tom  reached  home  he  found  the  black  print  of  a  fin- 


21g  TALES  Or  J    TRAVELLER 

ger  burnt,  as  it  were,  miu  his  forehead,  which  nothing  could 
obliterate. 

The  first  news  his  wife  had  to  tell  him  was  the  sudden  death 
of  Absalom  Crowninshield,  the  rich  buccaneer.  It  was 
announced  in  the  papers  with  the  usual  flourish,  that  "  a  great 
man  had  fallen  in  Israel." 

Tom  recollected  the  tree  which  his  black  friend  had  just  hewn 
i.  and  which  was  ready  for  burning.  kk  Let  the  freebooter 
ud  Tom,  "who  cares!"  He  now  felt  convinced  that 
all  he  had  heard  and  seen  was  no  illusion. 

He  was  not  prone  to  let  his  wife  into  his  confidence ;  but  as 
this  was  an  ui  a  et ,  he  willingly  shared  it  with  her .   All 

wakened  at  the  mention  of  hidden  gold,  and 
she  urged  her  husband  to  comply  with  the  black  man's  terms 
and  serine  what  would  make  them  wealthy  for  life.  However 
Tom  might  have  felt  disposed  to  sell  himself  to  the  devil,  he 
was  determined  not  to  do  so  to  oblige  his  wife;  so  he  flatly 
refused  out  of  the  mere  spirit  of  contradiction.  Many  and  bit- 
ter were  the  quarrels  they  had  on  the  subject,  but  the  more 
she  talked  the  more  resolute  was  Tom  not  to  be  damned  to 
please  her.  At  length  she  determined  to  drive  the  bargain  on 
her  own  account,  and  if  she  succeeded,  to  keep  all  the  gain  to 

herself. 

Being  of  the  same  fearless  temper  as  her  husband,  she  sat  off 
for  the  old  Indian  fort  towards  the  close  of  a  summer's  day. 
She  was  many  hour's  absent.,  When  she  came  back  she  was 
reserved  and  ^sullen  in  her  replies.  She  spoke  something  of  a 
black  man  whom  she  had  met  about  twilight,  hewing  at  the 
root  of  a  tall  tree.  He  was  sulky,  however,  and  would  not 
come  to  terms ;  she  was  to  go  again  with  a  propitiatory  offer- 
ing, but  what  it  was  she  forebore  to  say. 

The  next  evening  she  sat  off  again  for  the  swamp,  with  her 
apron  heavily  laden.  Tom  waited  and  waited  for  her,  but  in 
vain :  midnight  came,  but  she  did  not  make  her  appearance ; 
morning,  noon,  night  returned,  but  still  she  did  not  come. 
Tom  now  grew  uneasy  for  her  safety ;  especially  as  he  found 
she  had  carried  off  in  her  apron  the  silver  tea  pot  and  spoons 
and  every  portable  article  of  value.  Another  night  elapsed, 
another  morning  came;  but  no  wife.  In  a  word,  she  was 
never  heard  of  more. 

What  was  her  real  fate  nobody  knows,  in  consequence  of  so 
many  pretending  to  know.  It  is  one  of  those  facts  that  have 
become  confounded  bv  a  variety  of  historians.    Some  asserted 


TEE  DEVIL   AM)   TOM    WALKER.  219 

that  she  lost  her  way  among  the  tangled  mazes  of  the  swamp 
and  sunk  into  some  pit  or  slough;  others,  more  uncharitable, 
hinted  that  she  had  eloped  with  the  household  booty,  and 
made  off  to  some  other  province ;  while  others  assert  that  the 
tempter  had  decoyed  her  into  a  dismal  quagmire,  on  top  of 
which  her  hat  was  found  lying.  In  confirmation  of  this,  it 
was  said  a  great  black  man  with  an  axe  on  his  shoulder 
was  seen  late  that  very  evening  coming  out  of  the  swamp, 
carrying  a  bundle  tied  in  a  check  apron,  with  an  air  of  surly 
triumph. 

The  most  current  and  probable  story,  however,  observes  that 
Tom  Walker  grew  so  anxious  about  the  fate  of  his  wife  and 
his  property  that  he  sat  out  at  length  to  seek  them  both 
at  the  Indian  fort.  During  a  long  summer's  afternoon  he 
searched  about  the  gloomy  place,  but  no  wife  was  to  be  seen. 
He  called  her  name  repeatedly,  but  she  was  no  where  to  be 
heard.  The  bittern  alone  responded  to  his  voice,  as  he  flew 
screaming  by ;  or  the  bull-frog  croaked  dolefully  from  a  neigh- 
boring pool.  At  length,  it  is  said,  just  in  the  brown  hour  of 
twilight,  when  the  owls  began  to  hoot  and  the  bats  to  flit  about, 
his  attention  was  attracted  by  the  clamor  of  carrion  crows  that 
were  hovering  about  a  cypress  tree.  He  looked  and  beheld  a 
bundle  tied  in  a  check  apron  and  hanging  in  the  branches  of 
a  tree ;  with  a  great  vulture  perched  hard  by,  as  if  keeping 
watch  upon  it.  He  leaped  with  joy,  for  he  recognized  his 
wife's  apron,  and  supposed  it  to  contain  the  household  valu- 
ables. 

"Let  us  get  hold  of  the  property,"  said  he  consolingly  to  him- 
self, "and  we  will  endeavor  to  do  without  the  woman." 

As  he  scrambled  up  the  tree  the  vulture  spread  its  wide 
wings,  and  sailed  off  screaming  into  the  deep  shadows  of  the 
forest.  Tom  seized  the  check  apron,  but,  woful  sight!  found 
nothing  but  a  heart  and  liver  tied  up  in  it. 

Such,  according  to  the  most  authentic  old  story,  was  all  thai 
was  to  be  found  of  Tom's  wife.  She  had  probably  attempted 
to  deal  with  the  black  man  as  she  had  been  accustomed  to  deal 
with  her  husband;  but  though  a  female  scold  is  generally  con- 
sidered  a  match  for  the  devil,  yet  in  this  instance  she  appears 
to  have  had  the  worst  of  it.  She  must  have  died  game,  how- 
ever :  from  the  part  that  remained  unconquered.  Indeed,  it  is 
said  Tom  noticed  many  prints  of  cloven  feet  deeply  stamped 
about  the  tree,  and  several  handfuls  of  hair  that  looked  as  if 
they  had  been  plucked  from  the   ronrse  black  shock  of  the 


220  TALES  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

woodsman.  Tom  knew  his  wife's  prowess  by  experience.  He 
shrugged  his  shoulders  as  he  looked  at  the  signs  of  a  fierce 
clapper-clawing.  ''Egad,"  said  he  to  himself,  "Old  Scratch 
must  have  had  a  tough  time  of  it  I" 

Tom  consoled  himself  for  the  loss  of  his  property  by  the  loss 
of  his  wife;  for  he  was  a  little  of  a  philosopher.  He  even  felt 
something  like  gratitude  towards  the  black  woodsman,  who  he 
considered  had  done  him  a  kindness.  He  sought,  therefore,  to 
cultivate  a  farther  acquainl  ith  him,  but  for  some  time 

without  success;  the  old  black  legs  played  shy,  for  whatever 
people  may  think,  he  is  not  always  to  be  had  for  calling  for; 
he  knows  how  to  play  his  cards  when  pretty  sure  of  his  game. 

At  length,  it  is  said,  when  delay  had  whetted  Tom's  eager- 
ness to  the  quick,  and  prepared  him  to  agree  to  any  thing 
rather  than  not  gain  the  promised  treasure,  he  met  the  black 
man  one  evening  in  his  usual  woodman  dress,  with  his  axe  on 
iioulder,  sauntering  along  the  edge  of  the  swamp,  and 
humming  a  tune.  He  affected  to  receive  Tom's  advance  with 
great  indifference,  made  brief  replies,  and  went  on  humming 
his  tune. 

By  degrees,  however.  Tom  brought  him  to  business,  and 
the}T  began  to  haggle  about  the  terms  on  which  the  former  was 
to  have  the  pirate's  treasure.  There  was  one  condition  which 
need  not  be  mentioned,  being  generally  understood  in  all  cases 
where  the  devil  grants  favors;  but  there  were  others  about 
which,  though  of  less  importance,  he  was  inflexibly  obstinate. 
He  insisted  that  the  money  found  through  his  means  should 
be  employed  in  his  service.  He  proposed,  therefore,  that  Tom 
should  employ  it  in  the  black  traffic ;  that  is  to  say,  that  he 
should  fit  out  a  slave  ship.  This,  however,  Tom  resolutely  re- 
fused ;  he  was  bad  enough,  in  all  conscience;  but  the  devil  him- 
self could  not  1  empt  him  to  turn  slave  dealer. 

Finding  Tom  so  squeamish  on  this  point,  he  did  not  insist 
upon  it,  but  proposed  instead  that  he  should  turn  usurer;  the 
devil  being  extremely  anxious  for  the  increase  of  usurers,  look- 
ing upon  them  as  his  peculiar  people. 

To  this  no  objections  were  made,  for  it  was  just  to  Tom's 
taste. 

"You  shall  open  a  broker's  shop  in  Boston  next  month," 
said  the  black  man. 

"  111  do  it  to-morrow,  if  you  wish,"  said  Tom  Walker. 

"You  shall  lend  money  at  two  per  cent  a  month." 

"Egad,  I'll  charge  four!"  replied  Tom  Walker, 


THE  DEVIL    AND    T<>\!    WALKER.  221 

"You  shall  i  Mis.  foreclose  mortgages,  drive  the  mer- 
chant to  bankruptcy " 

"I'll  drive  him  to  the  d 1,"  cried  Tom  Walker,  eagerly. 

"You  are  the  usurer  for  my  money!"  said  the  black  legs, 
with  delight.     "  When  will  you  want  the  rhino?" 

"This  very  night." 

"Done!"  said  the  devil. 

"Done !"  said  Tom  Walker.— So  they  shook  hands  and  struck 
a  bargain. 

A  few  days1  time  saw  Tom  Walker  seated  behind  his  desk  in 
a  counting  house  in  Boston.  His  reputation  for  a  ready- 
moneyed  man,  who  would  lend  money  out  for  a  good  consider- 
ation, soon  spread  abroad.  Every  body  remembers  the  days  of 
Governor  Belcher,  when  money  was  particularly  scarce.  It 
was  a  time  of  paper  credit.  The  country  had  been  deluged 
with  government  bills ;  the  famous  Land  Bank  had  been  estab- 
lished; there  had  been  a  rage  for  speculating;  the  people  had 
run  mad  with  schemes  for  new  settlements ;  for  building  cities 
in  the  wilderness;  land  jobbers  went  about  with  maps  of 
grants,  and  townships,  and  Eldorados,  lying  nobody  knew 
where,  but  which  every  body  was  ready  to  purchase.  In  a 
word,  the  great  speculating  fever  which  breaks  out  every  now 
and  then  in  the  country,  had  raged  to  an  alarming  degree,  and 
body  was  dreaming  of  making  sudden  fortunes  from  nothing. 
As  usual,  the  fever  had  subsided ;  the  dream  had  gone  off.  and 
the  imaginary  fortunes  with  it ;  the  patients  were  left  in  doleful 
plight,  and  the  whole  country  resounded  with  the  consequent 
cry  of  ''hard  tinv 

At  tins  propitious  time  of  public  distress  did  Tom  Walker  set 
up  as  a  usurer  in  Boston.  His  door  was  soon  thronged  by  cus- 
tomers. The  needy  and  the  adventurous ;  the  gambling  specu- 
lator: the  dreaming  land  jobber ;  the  thriftless  tradesman ;  the 
merchant  with  cracked  credit;  in  short,  every  one  driven  to' 
raise  money  by  desperate  means  and  desperate  sacrifices,  hur- 
ried to  Tom  Walker. 

Thus  Tom  was  the  universal  friend  of  the  needy,  and  he 
acted  like  a  "friend  in  need;"  that  is  to  say,  he  always  exacted 
?ood  pay  and  good  security.  In  proportion  to  the  distress  of 
the  applicant  was  the  hardness  of  his  terms.  He  accumulated 
bonds  and  mortgages;  gradually  squeezed  his  customers  closer 
and  closer ;  and  sent  them,  at  length,  dry  as  a  sponge  from  his 
door. 

In  this  way  he  made  money  hand  over  hand;  became  a  rich 


222  TALES   OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

and  mighty  man.  and  exalted  his  cocked  hat  upon  'change. 
He  built  himself,  as  usual,  a  vast  house,  out  of  ostentation ;  but 
left  the  greater  part  of  it  unfinished  and  unfurnished  out  of 
parsimony.  He  even  set  up  a  carriage  in  the  fullness  of  his 
vain-glory,  though  he  nearly  starved  the  horses  which  drew  it; 
and  as  the  ungreased  wheels  groaned  and  screeched  on  theaxle- 
vou  would  have  thought  you  heard  the  souls  of  the  poor 
PS  lie  was  squeezing. 

As  Tom  waxed  old,  however,  he  grew  thoughtful.  Having 
secured  the  good  things  of  this  world,  he  began  to  feel  anxious 
about  those  of  the  next.  He  thought  with  regret  on  the  bargain 
he  had  made  with  his  black  friend,  and  set  his  wits  to  work  to 
cheat  him  out  of  the  conditions.  He  became,  therefore,  all  of  a 
sudden,  a  violent  church-goer.  He  prayed  loudly  and  strenu- 
ously as  if  heaven  were  to  be  taken  by  force  of  lungs.  Indeed, 
one  might  always  tell  when  he  had  sinned  most  during  the 
week,  by  the  clamor  of  his  Sunday  devotion.  The  quiet  Chris- 
tians who  had  been  modestly  and  steadfastly  travelling  Zion- 
ward,  were  struck  with  self-reproach  at  seeing  themselves  so 
suddenly  outstripped  in  their  career  by  this  new-made  convert. 
Tom  was  as  rigid  in  religious,  as  in  money  matters;  he  was  a 
stern  supervisor  and  censurer  of  his  neighbors,  and  seemed  to 
think  every  sin  entered  up  to  their  account  became  a  credit  on 
his  own  side  of  the  page.  He  even  talked  of  the  expediency  of 
reviving  the  persecution  of  quakers  and  anabaptists.  In  a 
word,  Tom's  zeal  became  as  notorious  as  his  riches. 

Still,  in  spite  of  all  this  strenuous  attention  to  forms,  Tom 
had  a  lurking  dread  that  the  devil,  after  all,  would  have  his 
due.  That  he  might  not  be  taken  unawares,  therefore,  it  is  said 
he  always  carried  a  small  Bible  in  his  coat  pocket.  He  had 
also  a  great  folio  Bible  on  his  counting-house  desk,  and  would 
frequently  be  found  reading  it  when  people  called  on  business ; 
'on  such  occasions  he  would  lay  his  green  spectacles  on  the 
book,  to  mark  the  place,  while  he  turned  round  to  drive  some 
usurious  bargain. 

Some  say  that  Tom  grew  a  little  crack-brained  in  his  old 
days,  and  that  fancying  his  end  approaching,  he  had  his  horse 
new  shod,  saddled  and  bridled,  and  buried  with  his  feet  upper- 
most ;  because  he  supposed  that  at  the  last  day  the  world  would 
be  turned  upside  down ;  in  which  case  he  should  find  his  horse 
standing  ready  for  mounting,  and  he  was  determined  at  the 
worst  to  give  his  old  friend  a  run  for  it.  This,  however,  is 
probably  a  mere  old  wives1  fable.     If  he  really  did  take  such  a 


VMM  DEVIL  AND  TOM   WALK**,  ggg 

precaution  it  was  totally  superfluous;  at  least  so  says  the 
authentic  old  legend,  which  closes  his  story  in  the  following 
manner : 

On  one  hot  afternoon  in  the  dog  days,  just  as  a  terrible  black 
thunder-gust  was  coming  up,  Tom  sat  in  his  counting-house  in 
his  white  linen  cap  and  India  silk  morning-gown.  He  was  on 
the  point  of  foreclosing  a  mortgage,  by  which  he  would 
plete  the  nun  of  an  unlncky  land  speculator  for  whom  he  had 
professed  the  greatest  friendship.  The  poor  land  jobber  begged 
him  to  grant  a  few  months'  indulgence.  Tom  had  grown  testy 
and  irritated  and  refused  another  day. 

"  My  family  will  be  ruined  and  brought  upon  the  parish,'' 
said  the  land  jobber.  "Charity  begins  at  home,"  replied  Tom, 
' '  I  must  take  care  of  myself  in  these  hard  times. " 

"  You  have  made  so  much  money  out  of  me,"  said  the  specu- 
lator. 

Tom  lost  his  patience  and  his  piety— "The  devil  take  me," 
said  he,  "  if  I  have  made  a  farthing ! " 

Just  then  there  were  three  loud  knocks  at  the  street  door. 
He  stepped  out  to  see  who  was  there.  A  black  man  was  hold- 
ing a  black  horse  which  neighed  and  stamped  with  impatience. 

"  Tom,  you're  come  for ! "  said  the  black  fellow,  gruffly.  Tom 
shrunk  back,  but  too  late.  He  had  left  his  little  Bible  at  the 
bottom  of  his  coat  pocket,  and  his  big  Bible  on  the  desk  buried 
under  the  mortgage  he  was  about  to  foreclose :  never  was  sin- 
ner taken  more  unawares.  The  black  man  whisked  him  like 
a  child  astride  the  horse  and  away  he  galloped  in  the  midst  of 
a  thunder-storm.  The  clerks  stuck  their  pens  behind  their  ears 
and  stared  after  him  from  the  windows.  Away  went  Tom 
Walker,  dashing  down  the  street;  Ins  white  cap  bobbing  up 
and  down;  his  morning-gown  fluttering  in  the  Avind,  and  his 
steed  striking  fire  out  of  the  pavement  at  every  bound.  Win  n 
the  clerks  turned  to  look  for  the  black  man  he  had  disappeared. 

Tom  Walker  never  returned  to  foreclose  the  mortgage,  A 
countryman  who  lived  on  the  borders  of  the  swamp,  reported 
that  in  the  height  of  the  thunder-gust  he  had  heard  a  great 
clattering  of  hoofs  and  a  howling  along  the  road,  and  that  when 
he  ran  to  the  window  he  just  caught  sight  of  a  figure,  such  as 
I  have  described,  on  a  horse  that  galloped  like  mad  across  the 
fields,  over  the  hills  and  down  into  the  black  hemlock  swamp 
towards  the  old  Indian  fort;  and  that  shorty  after  a  thunder- 
bolt fell  in  that  direction  which  seemed  to  set  the  whole  forest 
in  a  blaze. 


224  fALKS  OF  A  TRAVELLER. 

The  good  people  of  Boston  shook  their  heads  and  shrugged 
their  shoulders,  but  had  been  so  much  accustomed  to  witches 
and  goblins  and  tricks  of  the  devil  Li  all  kinds  of  shapes  from 
the  first  settlement  of  the  colony,  that  they  were  not  so  much 
horror-struck  as  might  have  been  expected.  Trustees  were 
appointed  to  take  charge  of  Tom's  effects.  There  was  nothing, 
however,  to  administer  upon.  On  searching  his  coffers  all  his 
bonds  and  mortgages  were  found  reduced  to  cinders.  In  place 
of  gold  and  silver,  his  iron  chest  was  filled  with  chips  and  shav- 
ings; two  skeletons  lay  in  his  stable  instead  of  his  half -starved 
horses,  and  the  very  next  day  his  great  house  took  fire  and 
was  burnt  to  the  ground. 

Such  was  the  end  of  Tom  Walker  and  his  ill-gotten  wealth. 
Let  all  griping  money-brokers  lay  this  story  to  heart.  The 
truth  of  it  is  not  to  be  doubted.  The  very  hole  under  the  oak 
trees,  from  whence  he  dug  Kidd's  money,  is  to  be  seen  to  this 
day;  and  the  neighboring  swamp  and  old  Indian  fort  is  often 
haunted  in  stormy  nights  by  a  figure  on  horseback,  in  a  morn- 
ing-gown and  white  cap,  which  is  doubtless  the  troubled  spirit 
of  the  usurer.  In  fact,  the  story  has  resolved  itself  into  a 
proverb,  and  is  the  origin  of  that  popular  saying  prevalent 
throughout  New-England,  of  "The  Devil  and  Tom  Walker." 

Such,  as  nearly  as  I  can  recollect,  was  the  tenor  of  the  tale 
told  by  the  Cape  Cod  whaler.  There  were  divers  trivial  par- 
ticulars which  I  have  omitted,  and  which  wiled  away  the 
morning  very  pleasantly,  until  the  time  of  tide  favorable  for 
fishing  being  passed,  it  was  proposed  that  we  should  go  to 
land,  and  refresh  ourselves  under  the  trees,  until  the  noontide 
heat  should  have  abated. 

We  accordingly  landed  on  a  delectable  part  of  the  island  of 
Mannahatta,  in  that  shady  and  embowered  tract  formerly 
under  dominion  of  the  ancient  family  of  the  Hardenbrooks. 
It  was  a  spot  well  known  to  me  in  the  course  of  the  aquatic 
expeditions  of  my  boyhood.  Not  far  from  where  we  landed, 
was  an  old  Dutch  family  vault,  in  the  side  of  a  bank,  which 
had  been  an  object  of  great  awe  and  fable  among  my  school- 
boy associates.  There  were  several  mouldering  coffins  within; 
but  what  gave  it  a  fearful  interest  with  us,  was  its  being  con- 
nected in  our  minds  with  the  pirate  wreck  which  lay  among 
the  rocks  of  Hell  Gate.  There  were  also  stories  of  smuggling 
connected  with  it,  particularly  during  a  time  that  this  retired 
spot  was  owned  by  a  noted  burgher  called  Ready  Money  Pre* 


WOLFERT   WEBBER,    Oh     G OLDEN  DREAMS.       225 

vost;  a  man  of  whom  it  was  whispered  that  he  had  many  and 
mysterious  dealings  with  parts  beyond  seas.  All  these  things, 
however,  had  been  jumbled  together  in  our  minds  in  that  vague 
way  in  which  such  things  are  mingled  up  in  the  tales  of  hoy- 
hood. 

While  I  was  musing  upon  these  matters  my  companions  had 
spread  a  repast,  from  the  contents  of  our  well-stored  pannier, 
and  we  solaced  ourselves  during  the  warm  sunny  hours  of 
mid-day  under  the  shade  of  a  broad  chestnut,  on  the  cool 
giassy  carpet  that  swept  down  to  the  water's  edge.  While 
lolling  on  the  grass  I  summoned  up  the  dusky  recollections  of 
my  boyhood  respecting  this  place,  and  repeated  them  like  the 
imperfectly  remembered  traces  of  a  dream,  for  the  entertain- 
ment of  my  companions.  When  I  had  finished,  a  worthy  old 
burgher,  John  Josse  Vandermoere,  the  same  who  once  related 
to  me  the  adventures  of  Dolph  Heyliger,  broke  silence  and 
observed,  that  he  recollected  a  story  about  money-digging 
which  occurred  in  this  very  neighborhood.  As  we  knew  him 
to  be  one  of  the  most  authentic  narrators  of  the  province  we 
begged  him  to  let  us  have  the  particulars,  and  accordingly, 
wlule  we  refreshed  ourselves  with  a  clean  long  pipe  of  Blase 
Moore's  tobacco,  the  authentic  John  Josse  Vandermoere  related 
the  following  tale. 


WOLFERT  WEBBER;  OR,  GOLDEN  DREAMS. 


In  the  year  of  grace  one  thousand  seven  hundred  and — blank 
— for  I  do  not  remember  the  precise  date;  however,  it  was 
somewhere  in  the  early  part  of  the  last  century,  there  lived  in 
the  ancient  city  of  the  Manhattoes  a  worthy  burgher,  WoKert 
Webber  by  name.  He  was  descended  from  old  Cobus  Webber 
of  the  Brill e  in  Holland,  one  of  the  original  settlers,  famous  for 
introducing  the  cultivation  of  cabbages,  and  who  came  over  to 
the  province  during  the  protectorship  of  Oloffe  Van  Kortlandt, 
otherwise  called  the  Dreamer. 

The  field  in  which  Cobus  Webber  first  planted  himself  and 
his  cabbages  had  remained  ever  since  in  the  family,  who  con- 
tinued in  the  same  line  of  husbandry,  with  that  praiseworthy 
perseverance  for  which  our  Dutch  burghers  are  noted.  The 
whole  family  genius,  during  several  generations,  was  dev<  >tvd 


926  TALES  OF  .1    TBA  tEl  /./•//,'. 

to  the  study  and  development  of  this  one  noble  vegetable-;  and 
to  this  concentration  of  intellect  may  doubtless  be  ascribed  the 
prodigious  size  and  renown  to  which  the  Webber  cabbages- 
attained. 

The  Webber  dynasty  continued  in  uninterrupted  succession: 
and  never  did  a  line  give  more  unquestionable  proofs  of  legiti 
macy.  The  eldest  son  succeeded  to  the  looks,  as  well  as  the 
territory  of  his  sire ;  and  had  the  portraits  of  this  line  of  tran- 
quil potentates  been  taken,  they  would  have  presented  a  row 
of  heads  marvellously  resembling  in  shape  and  magnitude  the 
vegetables  over  whieh  they  reigned. 

The  seat  of  government  continued  unchanged  in  the  family 
mansion:— a  Dutch-built  house,  with  a  front,  or  rather  gable 
end  of  yellow  brick,  tapering  to  a  point,  with  the  customary 
iron  weathercock  at  the  top.  Every  thing  about  the  building 
bore  the  air  of  long-settled  ease  and  security.  Flights  of 
martins  peopled  the  little  coops  nailed  against  the  walls,  and 
swallows  built  their  nests  under  the  eaves;  and  every  one 
knows  that  these  house-loving  birds  bring  good  luck  to  the 
dwelling  where  they  take  up  their  abode.  In  a  bright  sunny 
morning  in  early  summer,  it  was  delectable  to  hear  their 
cheerful  notes,  as  they  sported  about  in  the  pure,  sweet  air. 
chirping  forth,  as  it  were,  the  greatness  and  prosperity  of  the 
Webbers. 

Thus  quietly  and  comfortably  did  this  excellent  family  vege- 
tate under  the  shade  of  a  mighty  button-wood  tree,  which  by 
little  and  little  grew  so  great  as  entirely  to  overshadow  their 
palace.  The  city  gradually  spread  its  suburbs  round  their 
domain.  Houses  sprung  up  to  interrupt  their  prospects.  The 
rural  lanes  in  the  vicinity  began  to  grow  into  the  bustle  and 
populousness  of  streets ;  in  short,  with  all  the  habits  of  rustic 
life  they  began  to  find  themselves  the  inhabitants  of  a  city. 
Still,  however,  they  maintained  their  hereditary  character,  and 
hereditary  possessions,  with  all  the  tenacity  of  petty  German 
princes  in  the  midst  of  the  Empire.  Wolfert  was  the  last  of 
the  line,  and  succeeded  to  the  patriarchal  bench  at  the  door, 
under  the  family  tree,  and  swayed  the  sceptre 'of  his  fathers,  a 
kind  of  rural  potentate  in  the  midst  of  a  metropolis. 

To  share  the  cares  and  sweets  of  sovereignty,  he  had  taken 
unto  himself  a  help-mate,  one  of  that  excellent  kind  called 
stirring  women ;  that  is  to  say,  she  was  one  of  those  notable 
little  housewives  who  are  always  busy  when  there  is  nothing 
to  do.    Her  activity,  however,  took  one  particular  direction; 


WOLFERT   WEBBER;    OR,    GOLDEN  BREAM*.       227 

her  whole  life  seemed  devoted  to  intense  knitting;  whether  at 
home  or  abroad;  walking  or  sitting,  her  needles  were  continu- 
ally m  motion,  and  it  is  even  affirmed  that  by  her  unwearied 
industry  she  very  nearly  supplied  her  household  with  stock- 
ings throughout  the  year.  This  worthy  couple  were  blessed 
with  one  daughter,  who  was  brought  up  with  great  tenderness 
and  care;  uncommon  pains  had  been  taken  with  her  educa- 
tion, so  that  she  could  stitch  in  every  variety  of  way;  make 
all  kinds  of  pickles  and  preserves,  and  mark  her  own  name  on 
a  sampler.  The  influence  of  her  taste  was  seen  also  in  the 
tannly  garden,  where  the  ornamental  began  to  mingle  with  the 
useful;  whole  rows  of  fiery  marigolds  and  splendid  hollyhocks 
bordered  the  cabbage-beds;  and  gigantic  sunflowers  lolled  their 
broad  jolly  faces  over  the  fences,  seeming  to  ogle  most  affecti- 
onately the  passers-by. 

Thus  reigned  and  vegetated  Wolfert  Webber  over  his  pater- 
nal  acres,  peaceably  and  contentedly.     Not  but  that,  like  all 
other  sovereigns,  he  had  his  occasional  cares  and  vexations 
The  growth  of  his  native  city  sometimes  caused  him  annoy- 
ance.    His  little  territory  gradually  became  hemmed  in  by 
streets  and  houses,  which  intercepted  air  and  sunshine     He 
was  now  and  then  subject  to  the  irruptions  of  the  border  popu- 
lation, that  infest  the  streets  of  a  metrooohs,  who  would  some- 
times make  midnight  forays  into  his  dominions,  and  carry  off 
captive  whole  platoons  of  his  noblest  subjects.     Vagrant  swine 
would  make  a  descent,  too.  now  and  then,  when  the  gate  was 
left  open,  and  lay  all  waste  before  them;  and  mischievous 
urchins  would  often  decapitate  the  illustrious  sunflowers  the 
glory  of  the  garden,  as  they  lolled  their  heads  so  fondly  over 
the  waUs.     Still  all  these  were  petty  grievances,  which  might 
now  and  then  ruffle  the  surface  of  his  mind,  as  a  summer 
breeze  will  ruffle  the  surface  of  a  mill-pond;  but  they  could 
not  disturb  the  deep-seated  quiet  of  his  soul.     He  would  seize  a 
trusty  staff,  that  stood  behind  the  door,  issue  suddenly  out 
and  anoint  the  back  of  the  aggressor,  whether  pig  or  urchin' 
and  then  return  within  doors,    marvellously  refreshed   and 
tranquillized. 

The  chief  cause  of  anxiety  to  honest  Wolfert,  however  was 
the  growing  prosperity  of  the  city.  The  expenses  of  livimr 
doubled  and  trebled;  but  he  could  not  double  and  treble  the 
magnitude  of  his  cabbages;  and  the  number  of  competitors 
prevented  the  increase  of  price ;  thus,  therefore,  while  every  one 
•round  him  grew  richer,  Wolfert  grow  poorer,  and  he  could 


228  TALES   OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

not,  for  the  life  of  him,   perceive  h  rw  the  evil  was  to  be   ~ 
remedied. 

This  growing  care  which  increased  from  day  to  day,  had  its 
gradual  off ect  upon  our  worthy  burgher ;  insomuch,  that  it  at 
length  implanted  two  or  three  wrinkles  on  his  brow;  things 
unknown  before  in  the  family  of  the  Webbers;  and  it  seemed  to 
pinch  up  the  corners  of  his  cocked  hat  into  an  expression  of 
anxiety,  totally  opposite  to  the  tranquil,  broad-brimmed,  low- 
crowned  beavers  of  his  illustrious  progenitors. 

Perhaps  even  this  would  not  have  materially  disturbed  the 
serenity  of  his  mind  had  he  had  only  himself  and  his  wife  to  care 
for ;  but  there  was  his  daughter  gradually  growing  to  maturity ; 
and  all  the  world  knows  when  daughters  begin  to  ripen  no 
fruit  or  flower  requires  so  much  looking  after.  I  have  no  talent 
at  describing  female  charms,  else  fain  would  I  depict  the  progress 
of  this  little  Dutch  beauty.  How  her  blue  eyes  grew  deeper 
and  deeper,  and  her  cherry  lips  redder  raid  redder;  and  how 
she  ripened  and  ripened,  and  rounded  and  rounded  in  the 
opening  breath  of  sixteen  summers,  until,  in  her  seventeenth 
spring,  she  seemed  ready  to  burst  out  of  her  boddice  like  a  half- 
blown  rose-bud. 

Ah,  well-a-day !  could  I  but  show  her  as  she  was  then,  tricked 
out  on  a  Sunday  morning  in  the  hereditary  finery  of  the  old 
Dutch  clothes-press,  of  which  her  mother  had  confided  to  her  the 
key.  The  wedding  dress  of  'her  grandmother,  modernized  for 
use,  with  sundry  ornaments,  handed  down  as  heirlooms  in  the 
family.  Her  pale  brown  hair  smoothed  with  buttermilk  in  flat 
waving  lines  on  each  Bide  of  her  fair  forehead.  The  chain  of 
fellow  virgin  gold,  that  encircled  her  neck ;  the  little  cross,  that 
just  rested  at  the  entrance  of  a  soft  valley  of  happiness,  as  if  it 
would  sanctify  the  place.  The — but  pooh ! — it  is  not  for  an  old 
man  like  me  to  be  prosing  about  female  beauty :  suffice  it  to  say, 
Amy  had  attained  her  seventeenth  year.  Long  since  had  her 
sampler  exhibited  hearts  in  couples  desperately  transfixed  with 
arrows,  and  true  lovers'  knots  worked  in  deep  blue  silk ;  and  it 
was  evident  she  began  to  languish  for  some  more  interesting 
occupation  than  the  rearing  of  sunflowers  or  pickling  of 
cucumbers. 

At  this  critical  period  of  female  existence,  when  the  heart 
within  a  damsel's  bosom,  like  its  emblem,  the  miniature  which 
hangs  without,  is  apt  to  be  engrossed  by  a  single  image,  a  new 
visitor  began  to  make  his  appearance  under  the  roof  of  Wolf ert 
Webber.    This  was  Dirk  Waldron,  the  only  son  of  a  poor 


WOLFERT   WEBBER;    OB,    GOLJJhW  DREAMS.       229 

widow,  but  who  could  boast  of  more  fathers  than  any  lad  in 
rovince;  for  his  mother  had  had  four  husbands,  and  this 
only  child,  so  that  though  born  in  her  last  wedlock,  he  might 
fairly  claim  to  be  the  tardy  fruit  of  a  long  course  of  cultiva- 
tion. This  son  of  four  fathers  united  the  merits  and  the  vigor 
of  his  sires.  If  he  had  not  a  great  family  before  him,  he 
seemed  likely  to  have  a  great  one  after  him ;  for  you  had  only 
to  look  at  the  fresh  gamesome  youth,  to  see  that  he  was  formed 
to  be  the  founder  of  a  mighty  race. 

This  youngster  gradually  became  an  intimate  visitor  of  the 
family.  He  talked  little,  but  he  sat  long.  He  filled  the  father's 
pipe  when  it  was  empty,  gathered  up  the  mother's  knitting- 
needle,  or  ball  of  worsted  when  it  fell  to  the  ground ;  stroked 
the  sleek  coat  of  the  tortoise-shell  cat,  and  replenished  the  tea- 
pot for  the  daughter  from  the  bright  copper  kettle  that  sung 
before  the  fire.  All  these  quiet  little  offices  may  seem  of  trifl- 
ing import,  but  when  true  love  is  translated  into  Low  Dutch, 
it  is  in  this  way  that  it  eloquently  expresses  itself.  They  were 
not  lost  upon  the  Webber  family.  The  winning  youngster 
found  marvellous  favor  in  the  eyes  of  the  mother ;  the  tortoise- 
shell  cat,  albeit  the  most  staid  and  demure  of  her  kind,  gave 
indubitable  signs  of  approbation  of  his  visits,  the  tea-kettle 
seemed  to  sing  out  a  cheering  note  of  welcome  at  his  approach, 
and  if  the  sly  glances  of  the  daughter  might  be  rightly  read,  as 
she  sat  bridling  and  dimpling,  and  sewing  by  her  mother's 
side,  she  was  not  a  wit  behind  Dame  Webber,  or  grimalkin,  or 
the  tea-kettle  in  good-will. 

Wolfert  alone  saw  nothing  of  what  was  going  on.  Pro- 
foundly wrapt  up  in  meditation  on  the  growth  of  the  city  and 
his  cabbages,  he  sat  looking  in  the  fire,  and  puffing  his  pipe  in 
silence.  One  night,  however,  as  the  gentle  Amy,  according  to 
custom,  lighted  her  lover  to  the  outer  door,  and  he,  according 
to  custom,  took  his  parting  salute,  the  smack  resounded  so  vigor- 
ously through  the  long,  silent  entry  as  to  startle  even  the  dull  ear 
of  Wolfert.  He  was  slowly  roused  to  a  new  source  of  anxiel  y. 
It  had  never  entered  into  his  head,  that  this  mere  child, 
who,  as  it  seemed  but  the  other  day,  had  been  climbing  about 
his  knees,  and  playing  with  dolls  and  baby-houses,  could  all  at 
once  be  thinking  of  love  and  matrimony.  He  rubbed  his  eyes, 
examined  into  the  fact,  and  really  found  that  while  ho  had 
been  dreaming  of  other  matters,  she  had  actually  grown  into  a 
woman,  and  what  was  more,  had  fallen  in  love.  Here  were 
new  cares  for  poor  Wolfert.     ll«'  was  a  kind   father,  but   hfl 


230  TALES   OF  A    TEA  VELLUK 

was  a  prudent  man.  The  young  man  was  a  very  stirring  lad; 
but  then  he  had  neither  money  or  laud.  Wolfert's  ideas  all 
ran  in  one  channel,  and  he  saw  no  alternative  in  case  of  a  mar- 
riage, but  to  portion  off  the  young  couple  with  a  corner  of  his 
cabbage  garden,  the  whole  of  winch  was  barely  sufficient  for 
support  of  his  family. 

Like  a  prudent  father,  therefore,  he  determined  to  nip  this 
passion  in  the  bud,  and  forbade  the  youngster  the  house,  though 
sorely  did  it  go  against  his  fatherly  heart,  and  many  a  silent 
bear  did  it  cause  in  the  bright  eye  of  his  daughter.  She  showed 
herself,  however,  a  pattern  of  filial  piety  and  obedience.  She 
never  pouted  and  sulked ;  she  never  flew  in  the  face  of  parental 
authority ;  she  never  fell  into  a  passion,  or  fell  into  hysterics, 
as  many  romantic  novel-read  young  ladies  would  do.  Not  she, 
indeeed!  She  was  none  such  heroical  rebellious  trumpery,  I 
warrant  ye.  On  the  contrary,  she  acquiesced  like  an  obedient 
daughter ;  shut  the  street-door  in  her  lover's  face,  and  if  ever 
she  did  grant  him  an  interview,  it  was  either  out  of  the  kitchen 
window,  or  over  the  garden  garden  fence. 

Wolfert  was  deeply  cogitating  these  things  in  his  mind,  and 
his  brow  wrinkled  with  unusual  care,  as  he  wended  his  way 
one  Saturday  afternoon  to  a  rural  inn,  about  two  miles  from 
the  city.  It  was  a  favorite  resort  of  the  Dutch  part  of  the 
community  from  being  always  held  by  a  Dutch  line  of  land- 
lords, and  retaining  an  air  and  relish  of  the  good  old  times.  It 
was  a  Dutch-built  house,  that  had  probably  been  a  country 
seat  of  some  opulent  burgher  in  the  early  time  of  the  settle- 
ment. It  stood  near  a  point  of  land,  called  Corlears  Hook, 
which  stretches  out  into  the  Sound,  and  against  which  the  tide, 
at  its  flux  and  reflux,  sets  with  extraordinary  rapidity.  The 
venerable  and  somewhat  crazy  mansion  was  distinguished 
from  afar,  by  a  grove  of  elms  and  sycamores  that  seemed  to 
wave  a  hospitable  invitation,  while  a  few  weeping  willows  with 
their  dank,  drooping  foliage,  resembling  falling  waters,  gave 
an  idea  of  coolness,  that  rendered  it  an  attractive  spot  during 
the  heats  of  summer. 

Here,  therefore,  as  I  said,  resorted  many  of  the  old  inhabi- 
tants of  the  Manhattoes,  where,  while  some  played  at  the  shuf- 
fle-board and  quoits  and  ninepins,  others  smoked  a  deliberate 
pipe,  and  talked  over  public  affairs. 

It  was  on  a  blustering  auturnnal  afternoon  that  Wolfert  made 
his  visit  to  the  inn.  The  grove  of  elms  and  willows  was  stripped 
of  its  leaves,  which  whirled  in  rustling  eddies  about  the  fields, 


WOLFERT    WEBBBRi    OB,    GOLDEN   DREAMS.       2$\ 

The  ninepin  alley  was  deserted,  for  the  premature  chilliness 
of  the  clay  had  driven  the  company  within  doors.  As  it  was 
Saturday  afternoon,  the  habitual  club  was  in  session,  composed 
principally  of  regular  Dutch  burghers,  though  mingled  occa- 
sionally with  persons  of  various  character  and  country,  as  is 
natural  in  a  place  of  such  motley  population. 

Beside  the  fire-place,  and  in  a  huge  leather-bottomed  arm 
chair,  sat  the  dictator  of  this  little  world,  the  venerable  Rem. 
or.  as  it  was  pronounced,  Ramm  Rapelye.  He  was  a  man  ot 
"Walloon  race,  and  illustrious  for  the  antiquity  of  his  line,  his 
great  grandmother  having  been  the  first  white  child  born  in 
the  province.  But  he  was  still  more  illustrious  for  his  wealth 
and  dignity:  he  had  long  filled  the  noble  office  of  alderman, 
and  was  a  man  to  whom  the  governor  himself  took  off  his  hat. 
He  had  maintained  possession  of  the  leathern-bottomed  chair 
from  time  immemorial;  and  had  gradually  waxed  in  bulk  as 
he  sat  in  his  seat  of  government,  until  in  the  course  of  years  he 
filled  its  whole  magnitude.  His  word  was  decisive  with  his 
subjects;  for  he  was  so  rich  a  man,  that  he  was  never  expected 
to  support  any  opinion  by  argument.  The  landlord  waited  on 
him  with  peculiar  officiousness ;  not  that  he  paid  better  than 
his  neighbors,  but  then  the  coin  of  a  rich  man  seems  always  to 
much  more  acceptable.  The  landlord  had  always  a  pleas- 
ant word  and  a  joke,  to  msinuate  in  the  ear  of  the  august  Ramm. 
rlt  is  true,  Ramm  never  laughed,  and,  indeed,  maintained  a 
mastiff-like  gravity,  and  even  surliness  of  aspect,  yet  he  now 
and  then  rewarded  mine  host  with  a  token  of  approbation; 
which,  though  nothing  more  nor  less  than  a  kind  of  grunt,  yet 
delighted  the  landlord  more  than  a  broad  laugh  from  a  p 
man. 

''This  will  be  a  rough  night  for  the  money-diggers,"  said 
mine  host,  as  a  gust  of  wind  howled  round  the  house,  and  rat 
tied  at  the  windows. 

•'What,  are  they  at  their  works  again  ?"  said  an  English  half 
fey  eaptain,  with  one  eye.  who  was  a  frequent  attendant  at 
the  inn. 

"  Aye,  are  they,"  said  the  landlord,  "and  well  may  they  be. 
They've  had  luck  of  late.  They  say  a  great  pot  of  money  has 
been  dug  up  in  the  field,  just  behind  StuyvesamVs  orchard. 
Folks  think  it  must  have  been  buried  there  in  old  times,  by 
Peter  Stuyvesant,  the  Dutch  Governor." 

' '  Fudge  I"  said  the  one-eyed  man  of  war.  as  he  added  a  aniaU 
portion  of  water  to  a  bottom  of  brandy. 


232  TALES  OF  A    TRAVELLER 

"Well,  you  may  believe,  or  not,  as  you  please,"  said  mine 
host,  somewhat  nettled;  "but  every  body  knows  that  the  old 
governor  buried  a  great  deal  of  his  money  at  the  time  of  the 
Dutch  troubles,  when  the  English  red-coats  seized  on  the  prov- 
ince. They  say,  too,  the  old  gentleman  walks;  aye,  and  in  the 
very  same  dress  that  ho  wears  in  the  picture  which  hangs  ut, 
in  the  family  house/' 

"  Fudge!"  said  the  half-pay  officer. 

"Fudge,  if  you  please!— But  didn't  Corney  Van  Zandt  see 
him  at  midnight,  stalking  about  in  the  meadow  with  his 
wooden  \vg,  and  a  drawn  sword  in  Ins  hand,  that  flashed  like 
fireS  And  what  can  he  be  walking  for,  but  because  people 
have  been  troubling  the  place  where  he  buried  his  money  in 
old  times:" 

Here  the  landlord  was  interrupted  by  several  guttural  sounds 
from  Rainm  Rapelye,  betokening  that  he  was  laboring  with  the 
unusual  production  of  an  idea.  As  he  was  too  great  a  man  to 
be  slighted  by  a  prudent  publican,  mine  host  respectfully  paused 
until  he  should  deliver  himself.  The  corpulent  frame  of  this 
mighty  burgher  now  gave  all  the  symptoms  of  a  volcanic 
mountain  on  the  point  of  an  eruption.  First,  there  was  a  cer- 
tain heaving  of  the  abdomen,  not  unlike  an  earthquake ;  then 
was  emitted  a  cloud  of  tobacco  smoke  from  that  crater,  his 
mouth ;  then  there  was  a  kind  of  rattle  in  the  throat,  as  if  the 
idea  were  working  its  way  up  through  a  region  of  phlegm ; 
then  there  were  several  disjointed  members  of  a  sentence 
thrown  out,  ending  in  a  cough;  at  length  his  voice  forced  its 
way  in  the  slow,  but  absolute  tone  of  a  man  who  feels  the 
weight  of  his  purse,  if  not  of  his  ideas;  every  portion  of  his 
speech  being  marked  by  a  testy  puff  of  tobacco  smoke. 

"  Who  talks  of  old  Peter  Stuyvesant's  walking? — puff— Have 
people  no  respect  for  persons?— puff — puff — Peter  Stuyvesant 
knew  better  what  to  do  with  his  money  than  to  bury  it — puff — 
I  know  the  Stuyvesant  family — puff — every  one  of  them— puff 
—not  a  more  respectable  family  in  the  province — puff — old 
otanders — puff — warm  householders— puff — none  of  your  up- 
starts—puff—puff— puff. — Don't  talk  to  me  of  Peter  Stuyves- 
ant's walking— puff— puff —puff —puff . " 

Here  the  redoubtable  Ramm  contracted  his  brow,  clasped  up 
his  mouth,  till  it  wrinkled  at  each  corner,  and  redoubled  his 
smoking  with  such  vehemence,  that  the  cloudly  volumes  soon 
wreathed  round  his  head,  as  the  smoke  envelopes  the  awful 
summit  of  Mount  Etna. 


WOLFERT   WEBBER;    OR,    GOLDEN  BREAMS.       233 

A  general  silence  followed  the  sudden  rebuke  of  this  very- 
rich  man.  The  subject,  however,  was  too  interesting  to  be 
readily  abandoned.  The  conversation  soon  broke  forth  again 
from  the  lips  of  Peechy  Prauw  Van  Hook,  the  chronicler  of  the 
club,  one  of  those  narrative  old  men  who  seem  to  grow  incon- 
tinent of  words,  as  they  grow  old,  until  their  talk  flows  from 
them  almost  involuntarily. 

Peechy,  who  could  at  any  time  tell  as  many  stories  in  an 
evening  as  his  hearers  could  digest  in  a  month,  now  resumed 
the  conversation,  by  affirming  that,  to  his  knowledge,  money 
had  at  different  times  been  dug  up  in  various  parts  of  the 
island.  The  lucky  persons  who  had  discovered  them  had 
always  dreamt  of  them  three  times  beforehand,  and  what 
was  worthy  of  remark,  these  treasures  had  never  been  found 
but  by  some  descendant  of  the  good  old  Dutch  families,  which 
clearly  proved  that  they  had  been  buried  by  Dutchman  in  the 
olden  time. 

"Fiddle-stick  with  your  Dutchman!"  cried  the  half -pay 
officer.  .  ' '  The  Dutch  had  nothing  to  do  with  them.  They 
were  all  buried  by  Kidd,  the  pirate,  and  his  crew." 

Here  a  key-note  was  touched  that  roused  the  whole  company. 
The  name  of  Captain  Kidd  was  like  a  talisman  in  those  times, 
and  was  associated  with  a  thousand  marvellous  stories. 

The  half-pay  officer  was  a  man  of  great  weight  among  the 
peaceable  members  of  the  club,  by  reason  of  his  military 
character,  and  of  the  gunpowder  scenes  which,  by  his  own  ac- 
count, he  had  witneessed. 

The  golden  stories  of  Kidd,  however,  were  resolutely  rivalled 
by  the  tales  of  Peechy  Prauw,  who,  rather  than  suffer  his 
Dutch  progenitors  to  be  eclipsed  by  a  foreign  freebooter,  en- 
riched every  spot  in  the  neighborhood  with  the  hidden  wealth 
of  Peter  Stuyvcsant  and  his  contemporaries. 

Not  a  word  of  this"  conversation  was  lost  upon  Wolfert  Web- 
ber. He  returned  pensively  home,  full  of  magnificent  ideas  <>i 
buried  riches.  The  soil  of  his  native  island  seemed  to  be 
turned  into  gold-dust;  and  every  field  teemed  with  treasure. 
His  head  almost  reeled  at  the  thought  how  often  he  must  have 
heedlessly  rambled  over  places  where  countless  sums  lay, 
scarcely  covered  by  the  turf  beneath  his  feet.  His  mind  was 
in  a  vertigo  with  this  whirl  of  new  ideas.  As  he  came  in  sight 
of  the  venerable  mansion  of  his  forefathers,  and  the  little  realm 
where  the  Webbers  had  so  long  and  so  contentedly  flourished, 
his  gorge  rose  at  the  narrowness  of  his  destiny. 


284  TALES  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

''Unlucky  Wolf ert!"  exclaimed  he,  u others  can  go  to  bed 
and  dream  themselves  into  whole  mines  of  wealth ;  they  have 
but  to  seize  a  spade  in  the  morning,  and  turn  up  doubloons 
like  potatoes;  but  thou  must  dream  of  hardship,  and  rise  to 
poverty— must  dig  thy  field  from  year's  end  to  year's  end, 
and— and  yet  raise  nothing  but  cabbages!" 

Wolfert  Webber  went  to  bed  with  a  heavy  heart;  and  it  was 
long  before  the  golden  visions  that  disturbed  his  brain,  per- 
mitted him  to  sink  into  repose.  The  same  visions,  however, 
extended  into  his  sleeping  thoughts,  and  assumed  a  more  defi- 
nite form.  He  dreamt  that  he  had  discovered  an  immense 
treasure  in  the  centre  of  his  garden.  At  every  stroke  of  the 
spade  he  laid  bare  a  golden  ingot ;  diamond  crosses  sparkled 
out  of  the  dust;  bags  of  money  turned  up  their  bellies,  corpu- 
lent with  pieces  of  eight,  or  venerable  doubloons ;  and  chests, 
wedged  close  with  moidores,  ducats,  and  pistareens,  yawned 
before  his  ravished  eyes,  and  vomited  forth  their  glittering 
contents. 

Wolfert  awoke  a  poorer  man  than  ever.  He  had  no  heart  to 
go  about  his  daily  concerns,  which  appeared  so  paltry  and 
profitless;  but  sat  all  day  long  in  the  chimney-corner,  pictur- 
ing to  himself  ingots  and  heaps  of  gold  in  the  fire.  The  next 
night  his  dream  was  repeated.  He  was  again  in  his  garden, 
digging,  and  laying  open  stores  of  hidden  wealth.  There  was 
something  very  singular  in  this  repetition.  He  passed  another 
day  of  reverie,  and  though  it  was  cleaning-day,  and  the  house, 
as  usual  in  Dutch  households,  completely  topsy-turvy,  yet  he 
sat  unmoved  amidst  the  general  uproar. 

The  third  night  he  went  to  bed  with  a  palpitating  heart.  He 
put  on  his  red  nightcap,  wrong  side  outwards  for  good  luck. 
It  was  deep  midnight  before  his  anxious  mind  could  settle  itself 
into  sleep.  Again  the  golden  dream  was  repeated,  and  again 
he  saw  his  garden  teeming  with  ingots  and  money-bags. 

Wolfert  rose  the  next  morning  in  complete  bewilderment. 
A  dream  three  tunes  repeated  was  never  known  to  lie ;  and  if 
so,  his  fortune  was  made. 

In  his  agitation  he  put  on  his  waistcoat  with  the  hind  part 
before,  and  this  was  a  corroboration  of  good  luck.  He  no 
longer  doubted  that  a  huge  store  of  money  lay  buried  some- 
where in  his  cabbage-field,  coyly  waiting  to  be  sought  fo,r,  and 
he  half  repined  at  having  so  long  been  scratching  about  the 
surface  of  the  soil,  instead  of  digging  to  the  centre. 

He  took  his  seat  at  the  breakfast-table  full  of  these  specula- 


\1ulf£RT   WEBBER;    or.    QQLt)l  \    DREAMS.       38/> 

tions;  asked  his  daughter  to  put  a  lump  of  gold  into  his  tea. 
and  on  handing  his  wife  a  plate  of  slap-jacks,  begging  her  to 
help  herself  to  a  doubloon. 

His  grand  care  now  was  how  to  secure  this  immense  treasure 
without  it  being  known.  Instead  of  working  regularly  in  his 
grounds  in  the  day-time,  he  now  stole  from  Ins  bed  at  night, 
and  with  spade  and  pickaxe,  went  to  work  to  rip  up  and  dig 
about  his  paternal  acres,  from  one  end  to  the  other.  In  a  littL 
time  the  whole  garden,  which  had  presented  such  a  goodly  and 
regular  appearance,  with  its  phalanx  of  cabbages,  like  a  vege- 
table army  in  battle  array,  was  reduced  to  a  scene  of 
devastation,  while  the  relentless  Wolfert,  with  nightcap  on 
head,  and  lantern  and  spade  in  hand,  stalked  through  the 
slaughtered  ranks,  the  destroying  angel  of  his  own  vegetable 
world. 

Every  morning  bore  testimony  to  the  ravages  of  the  preced- 
ing night  in  cabbages  of  all  ages  and  conditions,  from  the  ten- 
der sprout  to  the  full-grown  head,  piteously  rooted  from  their 
quiet  beds  like  worthless  weeds,  and  left  to  wither  in  the  sun- 
shine. It  was  in  vain  Wolfcrt's  wife  remonstrated ;  it  was  in 
vain  his  darling  daughter  wept  over  the  destruction  of  some 
favorite  marygold.  ' '  Thou  shalt  have  gold  of  another  guess- 
sort/'  he  would  cry,  chucking  her  under  the  chin;  ''thou 
shalt  have  a  string  of  crooked  ducats  for  thy  wedding-necklace, 
my  child."  His  family  began  really  to  fear  that  the  poor 
man's  wits  were  diseased.  He  muttered  in  his  sleep  at  night 
of  mines  of  wealth,  of  pearls  and  diamonds  and  bars  of  gold. 
In  the  day-time  he  was  moody  and  abstracted,  and  walked  about 
as  if  in  a  trance.  Dame  Webber  held  frequent  councils  with 
all  the  old  women  of  the  neighborhood,  not  omitting  the  parish 
dominie;  scarce  an  hour  in  the  day  but  a  knot  of  them  might 
be  seen  wagging  their  white  caps  together  round  her  door. 
while  the  poor  woman  made  some  piteous  recital.  The  daugh- 
ter, too.  was  fain  to  seek  for  more  frequent  consolation  from 
the  stolen  interviews  of  her  favored  swain,  Dirk  Waldron. 
The  delectable  little  Dutch  songs  with  which  she  used  to  dulcify 
the  house  grew  less  and  less  frequent,  and  she  would  forget  her 
sewing  and  look  wistfully  in  her  father's  face  as  he  sat  pon- 
dering by  the  fireside.  Wolfert  caught  her  eye  one  day  fixed 
on  him  thus  anxiously,  and  for  a  moment  was  roused  from  his 
golden  reveries — "Cheer  up,  my  girl,"  said  he,  exultingly. 
k "  why  dost  thou  droop  ? — thou  shalt  hold  up  thy  head  one  day 
with  the and  the  Schemerhorns,  the  Van  Homes,  and  the 


9^6  TALB8  or  A    TliAVELLEB. 

Van  Dams-  the  patroon  himself  shall  be  glad  to  get  thee  for 
his  son  I" 

Amy  shook  her  head  at  this  vain-glorious  boast,  and  was 
more  than  ever  in  doubt  of  the  soundness  of  the  good  man's 
intellect. 

In  the  meantime  Wolfert  went  on  digging,  but  the  field  was 
extensive,  and  as  his  dream  had  indicated  no  precise  spot,  he 
had  to  dig-  at  random.  The  winter  set  in  before  one-tenth  of 
the  scene  of  promise  hud  been  explored.  The  ground  became 
too  frozen  and  the  nights  too  cold  for  the  labors  of  the  spade. 
No  sooner,  however,  did  the  returning  warmth  of  spring  loosen 
the  soil,  and  the  small  frogs  begin  to  pipe  in  the  meadows,  but 
Wolfert  resumed  his  labors  with  renovated  zeal.  Still,  how- 
ever, the  hours  of  industry  were  reversed.  Instead  of  working 
cheerily  all  day.  planting  and  setting  out  his  vegetables,  here 
mained  thoughtfully  idle,  until  the  shades  of  night  summoned 
him  to  his  secret  labors.  In  this  way  he  continued  to  dig  from 
night  to  night,  and  week  to  week,  and  month  to  month,  but 
n<>t  a  stiver  did  he  find.  On  the  contrary,  the  more  he  digged 
the  poorer  he  grew.  The  rich  soil  of  his  garden  was  digged 
away,  and  the  sand  and  gravel  from  beneath  were  thrown  to 
the  surface,  until  tlu^  whole  field  presented  an  aspect  of  sandy 
barrenness. 

In  the  meantime  the  seasons  gradually  rolled  on.  The  little 
frogs  that  had  piped  in  the  meadows  in  early  spring,  croaked 
as  hull-frogs  in  the  brooks  during  the  summer  heats,  and  then 
sunk  into  silence.  The  peach  tree  budded,  blossomed,  and  bore 
its  fruit.  The  swallows  and  martins  came,  twittered  about  the 
roof,  built  their  nests,  reared  their  young,  held  their  congress 
along  the  eaves,  and  then  winged  their  flight  in  search  of 
another  spring.  The  caterpillar  spun  its  winding-sheet,  dangled 
in  it  from  the  great  buttonwood  tree  that  shaded  the  house, 
turned  into  a  moth,  fluttered  with  the  last  sunshine  of  summer, 
and  disappeared ;  and  finally  the  leaves  of  the  buttonwood  tree 
turned  yellow,  then  brown,  then  rustled  one  by  one  to  the 
ground,  and  whirling  about  in  little  eddies  of  wind  and  dust, 
whispered  that  winter  was  at  hand. 

Wolfert  gradually  awoke  from  his  dream  of  wealth  as  the 
year  declined.  He  had  reared  no  crop  to  supply  the  wants  of 
his  household  during  the  sterility  of  winter.  The  season  was 
long  and  severe,  and  for  the  first  time  the  family  was  really 
straightened  in  its  comforts.  By  degrees  a  revulsion  of  thought 
took  place  in  Wolfert 's  mind,  common  to  those  whose  golden 


WOLFERT   WEBBER;   OB,    GOLDEN  DREAMS.       237 

dreams  have  been  disturbed  by  pinching  realities.  The  idea 
gradually  stole  upon  him  that  he  should  come  to  want.  He 
already  considered  himself  one  of  the  most  unfortunate  men  in 
the  province,  having  lost  such  an  incalculable  amount  of  undis- 
covered treasure,  and  now,  when  thousands  of  pounds  had 
eluded  his  search,  to  be  perplexed  for  shillings  and  pence  was 
cruel  in  the  extreme. 

Haggard  care  gathered  about  his  brow ;  he  went  about  with 
a  money-seeking  air,  his  eyes  bent  downwards  into  the  dust, 
and  carrying  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  as  men  are  apt  to  do 
when  they  have  nothing  else  to  put  into  them.  He  could  not 
even  pass  the  city  almshouse  without  giving  it  a  rueful  glance, 
as  if  destined  to  be  his  future  abode. 

The  strangeness  of  his  conduct  and  of  his  looks  occasioned 
much  speculation  and  remark.  For  a  long  time  he  was  sus- 
pected of  being  crazy,  and  then  every  body  pitied  him;  at 
length  it  began  to  be  suspected  that  he  was  poor,  and  then 
every  body  avoided  him. 

The  rich  old  burghers  of  his  acquaintance  met  him  outside  of 
the  door  when  he  called,  entertained  him  hospitably  on  the 
threshold,  pressed  him  warmly  by  the  hand  on  parting,  shook 
their  heads  as  he  walked  away,  with  the  kind-hearted  expres- 
sion of  "poor  Wolfert,"  and  turned  a  corner  nimbly,  if  by 
chance  they  saw  him  approaching  as  they  walked  the  streets. 
Even  the  barber  and  cobbler  of  the  neighborhood,  and  a  tat- 
tered tailor  in  an  alley  hard  by,  three  of  the  poorest  and  mer- 
riest rogues  in  the  world,  eyed  him  with  that  abundant  sym- 
pathy which  usually  attends  a  lack  of  means,  and  there  is  not 
a  doubt  but  then*  pockets  would  have  been  at  his  command, 
only  that  they  happened  to  be  empty. 

Thus  every  body  deserted  the  Webber  mansion,  as  if  poverty 
were  contagious,  like  the  plague ;  every  body  but  honest  Dirk 
Waldron,  who  still  kept  up  his  stolen  visits  to  the  daughter, 
and  indeed  seemed  to  wax  more  affectionate  as  the  fortunes  of 
his  mistress  were  on  the  wane. 

Many  months  had  elapsed  since  Wolfert  had  frequented  his 
old  resort,  the  rural  inn.  He  was  taking  a  long  lonely  walk 
one  Saturday  afternoon,  musing  over  his  wants  and  disappoint- 
ments, when  his  feet  took  instinctively  their  wonted  direction, 
and  on  awaking  out  of  a  reverie,  he  found  himself  before  the 
door  of  the  inn.  For  some  moments  he  hesitated  whether  to 
enter,  but  his  heart  yearned  for  companionship ;  and  where  can 
a  ruined  man  find  better  companionship  than  at  a  tavern, 


238  /•{//■<  OF  A   TRA  VF.i.i  /■■/:. 

where  there  is  neither  sober  example  nor  sober  advioe  to  put 
him  out  of  countenancj 

Wolfert  found  several  of  the  old  frequenters  of  the  tavern  at 
their  usual  posts,  and  seated  in  their  usual  places;  but  one  was 
missing,  the  great  Ramm  Rapelye,  who  for  many  years  had 
filled  the  chair  or  state.  Sis  place  was  supplied  by  a  stranger, 
who  seemed,  however,  completely  at  home  in  the  chair  and  the 
tavern.  He  was  rather  under-size.  but  deep-chested,  square. 
and  muscular.  His  broad  shoulders,  double  joints,  and  bow- 
knees,  -ave  tokens  of  prodigious  strength.  His  face  was  dark 
and  weather-beaten;  a  deep  scar,  as  if  from  the  slash  of  a  cut- 
lass, had  almost  divided  his  nose,  and  made  a  gash  in  his  upper 
lip.  through  which  his  teeth  shone  like  a  bull-dog?s.  Amass 
of  iron  gray  hair  gave  a  grizzly  finish  to  his  hard-favored  vis- 
sage.  His  dress  was  of  an  amphibious  character.  He  wore  an 
old  hat  edged  with  tarnished  lace,  and  cocked  in  martial  style, 
on  one  side  of  his  head ;  a  rusty  blue  military  coat  with  brass 
buttons,  and  a  wide  pah'  of  short  petticoat  trousers,  or  rather 
breeches,  for  they  were  gathered  up  at  the  knees.  He  ordered 
every  body  about  him  with  an  authoritative  air ;  talked  in  a 
brattling  voice,  that  sounded  like  the  crackling  of  thorns  under 
a  pot ;  damned  the  landlord  and  servants  with  perfect  impu- 
nity, and  was  waited  upon  with  greater  obsequiousness  than 
had  ever  been  shown  to  the  mighty  Ramm  himself. 

Wolfert's  curiosity  was  awakened  to  know  who  and  what 
was  this  stranger  who  had  thus  usurped  absolute  sway  in  this 
ancient  domain.  He  could  get  nothing,  however,  but  vague 
information.  Peechy  Prauw  took  him  aside,  into  a  remote 
corner  of  the  hall,  and  there  in  an  under-voice,  and  with  great 
caution,  imparted  to  him  all  that  he  knew  on  the  subject.  The 
inn  had  been  aroused  several  months  before,  on  a  dark  stormy 
night,  by  repeated  long  shouts,  that  seemed  like  the  howlings 
of  a  wolf.  They  came  from  the  water-side ;  and  at  length  were 
distinguished  to  be  hailing  the  house  in  the  seafaring  manner. 
"  House-a-hoy !"  The  landlord  turned  out  with  his  head- 
waiter,  tapster,  hostler,  and  errand  boy— that  is  to  say,  with 
his  old  negro  Cuff.  On  approaching  the  place  from  whence  the 
voice  proceeded,  they  found  this  amphibious-looking  personage 
at  the  water's  edge,  quite  alone,  and  seated  on  a  great  oaken 
sea-chest.  How  he  came  there,  whether  he  had  been  set  on 
shore  from  some  boat,  or  had  floated  to  land  on  his  chest, 
nobody  could  tell,  for  he  did  not  seem  disposed  to  answer 
questions,  and  there  was  something  in  his  looks  and  manners 


WOLFEBf   WEBBER;    OR,    GOLDEN  BREAMS.       230 

that  put  a  stop  to  all  questioning.  Suffice  it  to  say,  he  took 
possession  of  a  corner  room  of  the  inn,  to  which  his  chest  was 
removed  with  great  difficulty.  Here  he  had  remained  evei 
since,  keeping  about  the  inn  and  its  vicinity.  Sometimes,  it 
is  true,  he  disappeared  for  one,  two,  or  three  days  at  a  time, 
going  and  returning  without  giving  any  notice  or  account  of 
his  movements.  Ho  always  appeared  to  have  plenty  of  money, 
though  often  of  very  strange,  outlandish  coinage ;  and  he  regu- 
larly paid  his  bill  every  evening  before  turning  in. 

He  had  fitted  up  his  room  to  his  own  fancy,  having  slung  a 
hammock  from  the  ceiling  instead  of  a  bed,  and  decorated  the 
walls  with  rusty  pistols  and  cutlasses  of  foreign  workmanship. 
A  great  part  of  his  time  was  passed  in  this  room,  seated  by  the 
window,  which  commanded  a  wide  view  of  the  Sound,  a  short 
old-fashioned  pipe  in  his  mouth,  a  glass  of  rum  toddy  at  his 
elbow,  and  a  pocket  telescope  in  his  hand,  with  which  he  recon- 
noitred every  boat  that  moved  upon  the  water.  Large  square- 
rigged  vessels  seemed  to  excite  but  little  attention ;  but  the 
moment  he  descried  any  thing  with  a  shoulder-of -mutton  sail, 
or  that  a  Barge,  or  yawl,  or  jolly  boat  hove  in  sight,  up  went 
the  telescope,  and  he  examined  it  with  the  most  scrupulous 
attention. 

All  this  might  have  passed  without  much  notice,  for  in  those 
times  the  province  was  so  much  the  resort  of  adventurers  of  all 
characters  and  climes  that  any  oddity  in  dress  or  behavior 
attracted  but  little  attention.  But  in  a  little  while  tins  strange 
sea  monster,  thus  strangely  cast  up  on  dry  land,  began  to 
encroach  upon  the  long-established  customs  and  customers  of 
the  place ;  to  interfere  in  a  dictatorial  manner  in  the  affairs  of 
the  ninepin  alley  and  the  bar-room,  until  in  the  end  he  usurped 
an  absolute  command  over  the  little  inn.  In  was  in  vain  to 
attempt  to  withstand  his  authority.  He  was  not  exactly  quar- 
relsome, but  boisterous  and  peremptory,  like  one  accustomed 
to  tyrannize  on  a  quarter  deck;  and  there  was  a  dare-devil  air 
about  every  thing  he  said  and  did,  that  inspired  a  wariness  in 
all  bystanders.  Even  the  half -pay  officer,  so  long  the  hero  of 
the  club,  was  soon  silenced  by  him ;  and  the  quiet  burghers 
stared  with  wonder  at  seeing  their  inflammable  man  of  war  so 
readily  and  quietly  extinguished. 

And  then  the  tales  that  he  would  tell  were  enough  to  make  a 
peaceable  man's  hair  stand  on  end.  There  was  not  a  sea  fight, 
or  marauding  or  free-booting  adventure  that  had  happened 
within  the  last  twenty  years  but  he  seemed  perfectly  versed  in 


240  TALES  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

it.  He  delighted  to  talk  of  the  exploits  of  the  buccaneers  in 
t  lie  West-Indies  and  <  >n  the  Spanish  Main.  How  his  eyes  would 
glisten  as  he  described  the  waylaying  of  treasure  ships,  the 
■rate  fights,  yard  arm  and  yard  arm— broadside  and  broad- 
side—the boarding  and  capturing  of  large  Spanish  galleons! 
witli  what  chuckling  relish  would  he  describe  the  descent  upon 
soi iK-  rich  Spanish  colony;  the  rilling  of  a  church;  the  sacking 
of  a  convent!  You  would  have  thought  you  heard  some  gor- 
mandizer dilating  upon  the  roasting  a  savory  goose  at  Michael- 
mas as  he  described  the  roasting  of  some  Spanish  Don  to  make 
him  discover  his  treasure— a  detail  given  with  a  minuteness 
that  made  every  rich  old  burgher  present  turn  uncomfortably 
in  his  chair.  All  this  would  be  told  with  infinite  glee,  as  if  he 
considered  it  an  excellent  joke;  and  then  he  would  give  such  a 
tyrannical  Leer  in  the  face  of  his  next  neighbor,  that  the  poor 
man  would  be  lain  to  laugh  out  of  sheer  faint-heartedness.  If 
any  one,  however,  pretended  to  contradict  him  in  any  of  his 
stories  he  was  on  fire  in  an  instant.  His  very  cocked  hat 
assumed  a  momentary  fierceness,  and  seemed  to  resent  the  con- 
traduction. — "How  the  devil  should  you  know  as  well  as  I !  I 
tell  you  it  was  as  I  say  !"  and  he  would  at  the  same  time  let  slip 
a  broadside  of  thundering  oaths  and  tremendous  sea  phrases, 
such  as  had  never  been  heard  before  within  those  peaceful 
walls. 

Indeed,  the  worthy  burghers  began  to  surmise  that  he  knew 
more  of  these  stories  than  mere  hearsay.  Day  after  day  their 
conjectures  concerning  him  grew  more  and  more  wild  and 
fearful.  The  strangeness  of  his  manners,  the  mystery  that 
surrounded  him,  all  made  him  something  incomprehensible  in 
their  eyes.  He  was  a  kind  of  monster  of  the  deep  to  them— he 
was  a  merman — he  was  behemoth— he  was  leviathan — in  short, 
they  knew  not  what  he  was. 

The  domineering  spirit  of  this  boisterous  sea  urchin  at  length 
grew  quite  intolerable.  He  was  no  respecter  of  persons;  he 
contradicted  the  richest  burghers  without  hesitation ;  he  took 
possession  of  the  sacred  elbow  chair,  which  time  out  of  mind 
had  been  the  seat  of  sovereignty  of  the  illustrious  Rarnm 
Rapelye.  Nay,  he  even  went  so  far  in  one  of  his  rough  jocular 
moods,  as  to  slap  that  mighty  burgher  on  the  back,  drink  his 
toddy  and  wink  in  his  face,  a  thing  scarcely  to  be  believed. 
From  this  time  Raram  Rapelye  appeared  no  more  at  the  inn; 
his  example  was  followed  by  several  of  the  most  eminent  cus- 
tomers, who  were  too  rich  to  tolerate  being  bullied  out  of  their 


WOLFERT    WEBBER;   OH,    GOLDEN  DREAMS.       241 

opinions,  or  being  obliged  to  laugh  at  another  man's  jokes. 
The  landlord  was  almost  in  despair,  but  he  knew  not  how  to 
get  rid  of  this  sea  monster  and  his  sea-chest,  which  seemed  to 
have  grown  like  fixtures,  or  excrescences  on  his  establish- 
ment. 

Such  was  the  account  whispered  cautiously  in  Wolfert's  ear, 
by  the  narrator,  Peechy  Prauw,  as  he  held  him  by  the  button 
in  a  corner  of  the  hall,  casting  a  wary  glance  now  and  then 
towards  the  door  of  the  bar-room,  lest  he  should  be  overheard 
by  the  terrible  hero  of  his  tale. 

Wolfert  took  his  seat  in  a  remote  part  of  the  room  in  silence ; 
impressed  with  profound  awe  of  this  unknown,  so  versed  in 
freebooting  history.  It  was  to  him  a  wonderful  instance  of  the 
revolutions  of  mighty  empires,  to  find  the  venerable  Ramni 
Papery  e  thus  ousted  from  the  throne ;  a  rugged  tarpaulin  dic- 
tating from  his  elbow  chair,  hectoring  the  patriarchs,  and  filling 
this  tranquil  little  realm  with  brawl  and  bravado. 

The  stranger  was  on  this  evening  in  a  more  than  usually  com- 
municative mood,  and  was  narrating  a  number  of  astounding 
stories  of  plunderings  and  burnings  upon  the  high  seas.  He 
dwelt  upon  them  with  peculiar  relish,  heightening  the  frightful 
particulars  in  proportion  to  their  effect  on  his  peaceful  auditors. 
He  gave  a  long  swaggering  detail  of  the  capture  of  a  Spanish 
merchantman.  She  was  laying  becalmed  during  a  long  sum- 
mer's day,  just  off  from  an  island  which  was  one  of  the  lurking 
places  of  the  pirates.  They  had  reconnoitred  her  with  their 
spy -glasses  from  the  shore,  and  ascertained  her  character  and 
force.  At  night  a  picked  crew  of  daring  fellows  set  off  for  her 
in  a  whale  boat.  They  approached  with  muffled  oars,  as  she 
lay  rocking  idly  with  the  undulations  of  the  sea  and  her  sails 
flapping  against  the  masts.  They  were  close  under  her  stern 
before  the  guard  on  deck  was  aware  of  their  approach.  The 
alarm  was  given ;  the  pirates  threw  hand  grenades  on  deck  and 
sprang  up  the  main  chains  sword  in  hand. 

The  crew  flew  to  arms,  but  in  great  confusion  some  were 
shot  down,  others  took  refuge  in  the  tops;  others  were  driven 
overboard  and  drowned,  while  others  fought  hand  to  hand 
from  the  main  deck  to  the  quarter  deck,  disputing  gall 
every  inch  of  ground.  There  were  three  Spanish  gentlemen  on 
•board  with  their  ladies,  who  made  the  most  desperate  resis- 
tance; they  defended  the  companion-way,  cut  down  several  of 
their  assailants,  and  fought  like  very  devils,  for  they  were 
maddened  by  the  shrieks  of  the  ladies  from  the  cabin.     One  of 


942  TALES  OF  A    TRAVELLER 

the  Dons  was  old  and  soon  despatched.  The  other  two  kept 
their  ground  vigorously,  even  though  the  captain  of  the  pirates 
was  among  their  assailants.  Just  then  there  was  a  shout  of 
victory  from  the  main  deck.     "The  ship  is  ours  1"  cried  the 

pirates. 

One  of  the  Dons  immediately  dropped  his  sword  and  sur- 
rendered; the  other,  who  was  a  hot-headed  youngster,  and 
just  married,  gave  the  captain  a  slash  in  the  face  that  laid  all. 
open.  The  captain  just  made  out  to  articulate  the  words  "  no 
quarter." 

"And  what  did  they  do  with  their  prisoners?"  said  Peechy 
Prauw,  eagerly. 

"  Threw  them  all  overboard !"  said  the  merman. 

A  dead  pause  followed  this  reply.  Peechy  Prauw  shrunk 
quietly  back  like  a  man  who  had  unwarily  stolen  upon  the  lair  of 
a  sleeping  lion.  The  honest  burghers  cast  fearful  glances  at  the 
deep  scar  slashed  across  the  visage  of  the  stranger,  and  moved 
their  chairs  a  little  farther  off.  The  seaman,  however,  smoked 
on  without  moving  a  muscle,  as  though  he  either  did  not  per- 
ceive or  did  not  regard  the  unfavorable  effect  he  had  produced 
upon  his  hearers. 

The  half -pay  officer  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence ;  for  he 
was  continually  tempted  to  make  ineffectual  head  against  this 
tyrant  of  the  seas,  and  to  regain  his  lost  consequence  in  the 
eyes  of  his  ancient  companions.  He  now  tried  to  match  the 
gunpowder  tales  of  the  stranger  by  others  equally  tremendous. 
Kidd,  as  usual,  was  his  hero,  concerning  whom  he  had  picked 
up  many  of  the  floating  traditions  of  the  province.  The  sea- 
man had  always  evinced  a  settled  pique  against  the  red-faced 
warrior.  On  this  occasion  he  listened  with  peculiar  impatience. 
He  sat  with  one  arm  a-kimbo,  the  other  elbow  on  a  table,  the 
hand  holding  on  to  the  small  pipe  he  was  pettishly  puffing;  hii 
legs  crossed,  drumming  with  one  foot  on  the  ground  and  cast- 
ing every  now  and  then  the  side  glance  of  a  basilisk  at  the 
prosing  captain.  At  length  the  latter  spoke  of  Kidd's  having 
ascended  the  Hudson  with  some  of  his  crew,  to  land  his  plun- 
der in  secrecy. 

"  Kidd  up  the  Hudson!"  burst  forth  the  seaman,  with  a  tre- 
mendous oath;  "  Kidd  never  was  up  the  Hudson!" 

"I  tell  you  he  was,"  said  the  other.  "  Aye,  and  they  say  he 
buried  a  quantity  of  treasure  on  the  little  flat  that  runs  out 
into  the  river,  called  the  Devil's  Dans  Kammer." 

"The  Devil's  Dans  Kammer  in  your  teeth!"  cried  the  sea- 


WQLFJBItf  WEBBER;   OB,    (10LDE1S    DREAMS.       343 

'nan,     "  I  tell  you  Kidd  never  was  up  the  Hudson — what  the 
plague  do  you  know  of  Kidd  and  his  haunts  ?" 

"What  do  I  know  ?"  echoed  the  half-pay  officer;  "why,  I 
was  in  London  at  the  time  of  his  trial,  aye,  and  I  had  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  him  hanged  at  Execution  Dock." 

•  •  Then,  sir,  let  me  tell  you  that  you  saw  as  pretty  a  fellow 
hanged  as  ever  trod  shoe  leather.  Aye!"  putting  his  face. 
nearer  to  that  of  the  officer,  "and  there  was  many  a  coward 
looked  on,  that  might  much  better  have  swung  in  his  stead.'" 

The  half-pay  officer  was  silenced ;  but  the  indignation  thus 
pent  up  in  his  bosom  glowed  with  intense  vehemence  in  his 
single  eye,  which  kindled  like  a  coal. 

Peechy  Prauw,  who  never  could  remain  silent,  now  took  up 
the  word,  and  in  a  pacifying  tone  observed  that  the  gentleman 
certainly  was  in  the  right.  Kidd  never  did  bury  money  up 
the  Hudson,  nor  indeed  in  any  of  those  parts,  though  many 
affirm  the  fact.  It  was  Bradish  and  others  of  the  buccaneers 
who  had  buried  money,  some  said  in  Turtle  Bay,  others  on 
Long-Island,  others  in  the  neighborhood  of  Hell  Gate.  Indeed, 
added  he,  I  recollect  an  adventure  of  Mud  Sam,  the  negro 
fisherman,  many  years  ago,  which  some  think  had  something 
to  do  with  the  buccaneers.  As  we  are  all  fiiends  here,  and  as 
it  will  go  no  farther,  I'll  tell  it  to  you. 

1 '  Upon  a  dark  night  many  years  ago,  as  Sam  was  returning 
from  fishing  in  Hell  Gate — " 

Here  the  story  was  nipped  in  the  bud  by  a  sudden  movement 
from  the  unknown,  who,  laying  his  iron  fist  on  the  table, 
knuckles  downward,  with  a  quiet  force  that  indented  the  very 
boards,  and  looking  grimly  over  his  shoulder,  with  the  grin  of 
an  angry  bear.  "  Heark'ee,  neighbor,"  said  he,  with  signifi- 
cant nodding  of  the  head,  c '  you'd  better  let  the  buccaneers  and 
their  money  alone— they're  not  for  old  men  and  old  women  to 
meddle  with.  They  fought  hard  for  their  money,  they  gave 
body  and  soul  for  it,  and  wherever  it  lies  buried,  depend  upon 
it  he  must  have  a  tug  with  the  devil  who  gets  it." 

This  sudden  explosion  was  succeeded  by  a  blank  silence 
throughout  the  room.  Peechy  Prauw  shrunk  within  himself, 
and  even  the  red-faced  officer  turned  pale.  Wolfert,  who,  from 
a  dark  comer  of  the  room,  had  listened  with  intense  eagc 
to  all  this  talk  about  buried  treasure,  looked  with  mingled  awe 
and  reverence  on  this  bold  buccaneer,  for  such  he  really  sus- 
pected him  to  be.  There  was  a  chinking  of  gold  and  a  spark- 
ling of  jewels  in  all  his  stories  about  the  Spanish  Main  that 


244  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

gave  a  value  to  every  period,  and  Wolfert  would  have  given 
any  thing  for  the  rummaging  of  the  ponderous  sea-chest,  which 
his  imagination  crammed  full  of  golden  chalices  and  crucifixes 
and  jolly  round  bags  of  doubloons. 

The  dead  stillness  that  had  fallen  upon  the  company  was  at 
length  interrupted  by  the  stranger,  who  pulled  out  a  prodigious 
i  of  curious  and  ancient  workmanship,  and  which  in  Wol* 
I  had  a  decidedl  v  Spanish  look.  On  touching  a  spring 
it  struck  ten  o'clock;  upon  which  the  sailor  called  for  his 
reckoning,  and  having  paid  it  out  of  a  handful  of  outlandish 
coin,  lie  drank  oft"  the  remainder  of  his  beverage,  and  without 
taking  leave  of  any  one,  rolled  out  of  the  room,  muttering  to 
himself  as  he  stamped  up-stairs  to  his  chamber. 

It  was  some  time  before  the  company  could  recover  from  the 
silence  into  which  they  had  been  thrown.  The  very  footsteps 
of  the  stranger,  which  were  heard  now  and  then  as  he  trav- 
ersed his  chamber,  inspired  awe. 

Still  the  conversation  in  which  they  had  been  engaged  was 
too  interesting  not  to  be  resumed.  A  heavy  thunder-gust  had 
gathered  up  unnoticed  while  they  were  lost  in  talk,  and  the 
torrents  of  rain  that  fell  forbade  all  thoughts  of  setting  off  for 
home  until  the  storm  should  subside.  They  drew  nearer 
together,  therefore,  and  entreated  the  worthy  Peechy  Prauw 
to  continue  the  tale  which  had  been  so  discourteously  inter- 
rupted. He  readily  complied,  whispering,  however,  in  a  tone 
scarcely  above  his  breath,  and  drowned  occasionally  by  the 
rolling  of  the  thunder,  and  he  would  pause  every  now  and 
then,  and  listen  with  evident  awe.  as  he  heard  the  heavy  foot- 
steps of  the  stranger  pacing  overhead. 

The  following  is  the  purport  of  his  story. 


THE  ADVENTUEE  OF  SAM,  THE  BLACK  FISHERMAN. 

COMMONLY  DENOMINATED   MUD   SAM. 

Every  body  knows  Mud  Sam,  the  old  negro  fisherman  who 
has  fished  about  the  Sound  for  the  last  twenty  or  thirty  years. 
Well,  it  is  now  many  years  since  that  Sam,  who  was  then  a 
young  fellow,  and  worked  on  the  farm  of  Killian  Suydam  on 
Long  Island,  having  finished  his  work  early,  was  fishing,  one 


DVENTTJRE   0  THE  BLACB    FISHERMAN.   24b 

still  summer  evening,  just  about  the  neighborhood  of  I  fell 
Gate.  He  was  in  a  light  skiff,  and  being  well  acquainted  with 
the  currents  and  eddies,  he  had  been  able  to  shift  his  station 
with  the  shifting  of  the  tide,  from  the  Hen  and  Chickens  to  the 
Hog's  back,  and  from  the  Hog's  back  to  the  Pot,  and  from  the 
Pot  to  the  Frying-pan ;  but  in  the  eagerness  of  his  sport  Sam 
did  not  see  that  the  tide  was  rapidly  ebbing;  until  the  roaring 
of  the  whirlpools  and  rapids  warned  him  of  his  danger,  and  he 
had  some  difficulty  in  shooting  his  skilf  from  among  the  rocks 
and  breakers,  and  getting  to  the  point  of  Blackwell's  Island. 
Here  he  cast  anchor  for  some  time,  waiting  the  turn  of  the  tide 
to  enable  him  to  return  homewards.  As  the  night  set  in  it 
grew  blustering  and  gusty.  Dark  clouds  came  bundling  up  in 
the  west ;  and  now  and  then  a  growl  of  thunder  or  a  flash  of 
lightning  told  that  a  summer  storm  was  at  hand.  Sam  pulled 
over,  therefore,  under  the  lee  of  Manhattan  Island,  and  coast- 
ing along  came  to  a  snug  nook,  just  under  a  steep  beetling 
r<  »(k.  where  he  fastened  his  skiff  to  the  root  of  a  tree  that  shot 
out  from  a  cleft  and  spread  its  broad  branches  like  a  canopy 
over  the  water.  The  gust  came  scouring  along;  the  wind 
threw  up  the  river  in  white  surges ;  the  rain  rattled  among  the 
leaves,  the  thunder  bellowed  worse  than  that  which  is  now 
bellowing,  the  lightning  seemed  to  lick  up  the  surges  of  the 
stream;  but  Sam,  snugly  sheltered  under  rock  and  tree,  lay 
crouched  in  his  skiff,  rocking  upon  the  billows,  until  he  fell 
asleep.  When  he  awoke  all  was  quiet.  The  gust  had  passed 
away,  and  only  now  and  then  a  faint  gleam  of  lightning  in  the 
eas1  showed  which  way  it  had  gone.  The  night  was  dark  and 
moonless ;  and  from  the  state  of  the  tide  Sam  concluded  it  was 
near  midnight.  He  was  on  the  point  of  making  loose  his  skiff 
to  return  homewards,  when  he  saw  a  light  gleaming  along  the 
water  from  a  distance,  which  seemed  rapidly  approaching. 
As  it  drew  near  ne  perceived  that  it  came  from  a  lanthom  in 
the  bow  of  a  boat  which  was  gliding  along  under  shadow  of  the 
land.  It  pj filed  up  in  a  small  cove,  close  to  where  he  was.  A 
man  jumped  on  shore,  and  searching  about  with  the  lanthorn 
exclaimed,  "This  is  the  place— here's  the  Iron  ring."  The 
boat  was  then  made  fast,  and  the  man  returning  on  board, 
assisted  his  comrades  in  conveying  something  heavy  on 
shore.  As  the  light  gleamed  among  them,  Sam  saw  that  they 
were  five  stout,  desperate-looking  fellows,  in  red  woollen  caps, 
pith  a  leader  in  a  three-cornered  hat,  and  that  some  of  them 
were  armed  with  dirks,  or  long  knives,  and  pistols.       They 


TALES  OF  A    TEA  I 

talked  low  to  one  another,  ana  occasionally  in  some  outlandish 
tongue  which  he  could  not  understand, 

On  landing  they  made  their  way  among  the  bushes,  taking 
turns  to  relieve  each  other  in  lugging  their  burthen  up  the 
rocky  bank.  Sam's  curiosity  was  now  fully  aroused,  so  leav- 
ing his  skiff  he  clambered  silently  up  the  ridge  that  overlooked 
their  path.  They  had  stopped  to  rest  for  a  moment,  .and  tin. 
leader  was  looking  about  among  the  bushes  with  his  Ian  thorn. 
"  Have  you  brought  the  spades?"  said  one.  "  They  are  here," 
replied  another,  who  had  them  on  his  shoulder.  ' '  We  must  dig- 
deep,  where  there  will  be  no  risk  of  discovery,"  said  a  third. 

A  cold  chill  ran  through  Sam's  veins.  He  fancied  he  saw 
before  him  a  gang  of  murderers,  about  to  bury  their  victim. 
His  knees  smote  together.  In  his  agitation  he  shook  the 
branch  of  a  tree  with  which  he  was  supporting  himself  as  h< 
looked  over  the  edge  of  the  cliff. 

"What's  that?"'  cried  one  of  the  gang.  "Some  one  stirs 
among  the  bushes  I " 

The  lanthorn  was  held  up  in  the  direction  of  the  noise.  One 
of  the  red-caps  cocked  a  pistol,  and  pointed  it  towards  the  very 
place  where  Sam  was  standing.  He  stood  motionless— 
brqathless ;  expecting  the  next  moment  to  be  his  last.  Fortu- 
nately, his  dingy  complexion  was  in  his  favor,  and  made  no 
glare  among  the  leaves. 

"  'Tis  no  one,"  said  the  man  with  the  lanthorn.  "  What  a 
plague!  you  would  not  fire  off  your  pistol  and  alarm  the 
country." 

The  pistol  was  uncocked ;  the  burthen  was  resumed,  and  the 
party  slowly  toiled  up  the  bank.  Sam  watched  them  as  they 
went:  the  light  sending  back  fitful  gleams  through  the  drip- 
ping bushes,  and  it  was  not  till  they  were  fairly  out  of  sight 
that  he  ventured  to  draw  breath  freely.  He  now  thought  of 
getting  back  to  his  boat,  and  making  his  escape  out  of  the 
reach  of  such  dangerous  neighbors ;  but  curiosity  was  all-pow- 
erful with  poor  Sam.  He  hesitated  and  lingered  and  listened. 
By  and  bye  he  heard  the  strokes  of  spades. 

"  They  are  digging  the  grave!"  said  he  to  himself;  the  cold 
sweat  started  upon  his  forehead.  Every  stroke  of  a  spade,  as 
it  sounded  through  the  silent  groves,  went  to  his  heart ;  it  was 
evident  there  was  as  little  noise  made  as  possible ;  every  thing 
had  an  air  of  mystery  and  secrecy.  Sam  had  a  great  relish  for 
the  horrible— a  tale  of  murder  was  a  treat  for  him;  and  he  was 
a  constant  attendant  at  executions.     He  could  not,  therefore, 


ADVENTURE  OF  ISAM,    THE  BLACK  FISHERMAN.    947 

resist  an  impulse,  in  spite  of  every  danger,  to  steal  nearer,  and 
overlook  the  villains  at  their  work.  He  crawled  along  cau- 
tiously, therefore,  inch  by  inch;  stepping  with  the  utmost  care 
among  the  dry  leaves,  lest  their  rustling  should  betray  him.  He 
came  at  length  to  where  a  steep  rock  intervened  between  him 
and  the  gang ;  he  saw  the  light  of  their  lanthorn  shining  up 
against  the  branches  of  the  trees  on  the  other  side.  Sam 
slowly  and  silently  clambered  up  the  surface  of  the  rock,  and 
raising  his  head  above  its  naked  edge,  beheld  the  villains 
immediately  below  him,  and  so  near  that  though  he  dreaded 
discovery,  he  dared  not  withdraw  lest  the  least  movement 
should  be  heard.  In  this  way  he  remained,  with  his  round 
black  face  peering  over  the  edge  of  the  rock,  like  the  sun 
just  emerging  above  the  edge  of  the  horizon,  or  the  round- 
cheeked  moon  on  the  dial  of  a  clock. 

The  red-caps  had  nearly  finished  their  work ;  the  grave  was 
filled  up,  and  they  were  carefully  replacing  the  turf.  This 
done,  they  scattered  dry  leaves  over  the  place.  "And  now," 
said  the  leader,  '"  I  defy  the  devil  himself  to  find  it  out.1' 

"  The  murderers! '  exclaimed  Sam  involuntarily. 

The  whole  gang  started,  and  looking  up,  beheld  the  round 
black  head  of  Sam  just  above  them.  His  white  eyes  strained 
half  out  of  their  orbits ;  his  white  teeth  chattering,  and  his 
whole  visage  shining  with  cold  perspiration. 

•  •  We're  discovered !"  cried  one. 

"  Down  with  him!1'  cried  another. 

Sam  heard  the  cocking  of  a  pistol,  but  did  not  pause  for 
the  report.  He  scrambled  over  rock  and  stone,  through  bush 
and  briar ;  rolled  down  banks  like  a  hedgehog ;  scrambled  up 
others  like  a  catamount.  In  every  direction  he  heard  some  one 
or  other  of  the  gang  hemming  him  in.  At  length  he  reached 
the  rocky  ridge  along  the  river ;  one  of  the  red-caps  was  hard 
behind  him.  A  steep  rock  like  a  wall  rose  directly  in  his  way. 
it  seemed  to  cut  off  all  retreat,  when  he  espied  the  strong  cord- 
Hke  branch  of  a  grape-vine  reaching  half  way  down  it.  He 
sprang  at  it  with  the  force  of  a  desperate  man,  seized  it  with 
both  hands,  and  being  young  and  agile,  succeeded  in  swinging 
himself  to  the  summit  of  the  cliff.  Here  he  stood  in  full  relief 
against  the  sky,  when  the  red-cap  cocked  his  pistol  and  fired. 
The  ball  whistled  by  Sam's  head.  With  the  lucky  thought  of 
a  man  in  an  emergency,  he  uttered  a  yell,  fell  to  the  ground, 
and  detached  at  the  same  time  a  fragment  of  the  rock,  which 
tumbled  with  a  loud  splash  into  the  river. 


248  TALES  OF  A    TRAVELLER, 

"I've  done  his  business,"  said  the  red-cap,  to  one  or  two  of 
his  comrades  as  tney  arrived  panting.  "He'll  tell  no  tales, 
except  to  the  fishes  in  the  river." 

His  pursuers  now  turned  off  to  meet  their  companions.  Sam 
sliding  silently  down  the  surface  of  the  rock,  let  himself  quietly 
into  his  skiff,  cast  loose  the  fastening,  and  abandoned  himself 
to  the  rapid  current,  which  in  that  place  runs  like  a  mill-stream, 
and  soon  swept  him  off  from  the  neighborhood.  It  was  not, 
however,  until  he  had  drifted  a  great  distance  that  he  ventured 
to  ply  ln's  oars;  when  he  made  his  skiff  dart  like  an  arrow 
through  the  strait  of  Hell  Gate,  never  heeding  the  danger  of 
Pot,  Frying-pan,  or  Hogs-back  itself;  nor  did  he  feel  himself 
thoroughly  secure  until  safely  nestled  in  bed  in  the  cockloft  of 
the  ancient  farm-house  of  the  Buy  dams. 

Here  the  worthy  Peechy  paused  to  take  breath  and  to  take  a 
sip  of  the  gossip  tankard  that  stood  at  his  elbow.  His  auditors 
remained  with  open  mouths  and  outstretched  necks,  gaping 
like  a  nest  cf  swallows  for  an  additiona?  mouthful. 

"  And  is  that  all  .*'  exclaimed  the  half -pay  officer. 

"  That's  all  that  belongs  to  the  story,"  said  Peechy  Prauw. 

"  And  did  Sam  never  find  out  what  was  buried  by  the  red- 
saps  :''  said  Wolfert,  eagerly;  whose  mind  was  haunted  by 
nothing  but  ingots  and  doubloons. 

"  Not  that  I  know  of;  he  had  no  time  to  spare  from  his  work ; 
and  to  tell  the  truth,  he  did  not  like  to  run  the  risk  of  another 
race  among  the  rocks.  Besides,  how  should  he  recollect  the 
spot  where  the  grave  had  been  digged?  every  thing  would  look 
different  by  daylight.  And  then,  where  was  the  use  of  looking 
for  a  dead  body,  when  there  was  no  chance  of  hanging  the 
murderers ?" 

"  Aye,  but  are  you  sure  it  was  a  dead  body  they  buried?"  said 
Wolfert. 

"  To  be  sure, "  cried  Peechy  Prauw,  exultingly.  ' '  Does  it  not 
haunt  in  the  neighborhood  to  this  very  day?" 

"  Haunts !"  exclaimed  several  of  the  party,  opening  their  eyes 
still  wider  and  edging  their  chairs  still  closer. 

"Aye,  haunts,"  repeated  Peechy ;  "  has  none  of  you  heard  of 
father  red-cap  that  haunts  the  old  burnt  farm-house  in  the 
woods,  on  the  border  of  the  Sound,  near  Hell  Ga  I  ef" 

"  Oh,  to  be  sure,  I've  heard  tell  of  something  of  the  kind,  but 
then  I  took  it  for  some  old  wives'  fable. " 

a  Old  wives'  fable  or  not,"  said  Peechy  Prauw,  "that  farm- 
house stands  hard  by  the  very  spot.     It's  been  unoccupied  time 


ADVENTURE  OF  SAM,    TllK  BLACK   FISHERMAN.    249 

out  of  mind,  and  stands  m  a  wilu,  lonely  part  of  the  coast;  but 
those  who  fish  in  the  neighborhood  have  often  heard  strange 
noises  there ;  and  lights  have  been  seen  about  the  wood  at  night ; 
and  an  old  fellow  in  a  red  cap  has  been  seen  at  the  windows 
more  than  once,  which  people  take  to  be  the  ghost  of  the  body 
that  was  buried  there.  Once  upon  a  time  three  soldiers  took 
shelter  in  the  building  for  the  nigh*,  and  rummaged  it  from  top 
to  bottom,  when  they  found  old  father  red-cap  astride  of  a  cider- 
barrel  in.the  cellar,  with  a  jug  in  one  hand  and  a  goblet  in  the 
other.  He  offered  them  a  drink  out  of  his  goblet,  but  just  as 
one  of  the  soldiers  was  putting  it  to  his  mouth— Whew !  a  flash 
of  fire  blazed  through  the  cellar,  blinded  every  mother's  son 
of  them  for  several  minutes,  and  when  they  recovered  their 
eye-sight,  jug,  goblet,  and  red-cap  had  vanished,  and  nothing 
but  the  empty  cider-barrel  remained.'' 

Here  the  half-pay  officer,  who  was  growing  very  muzzy  and 
sleepy,  and  nodding  over  his  liquor,  with  half -extinguished  eye, 
suddenly  gleamed  up  like  an  expiring  rushlight. 

"That's  all  humbug!"  said  he,  as  Peechy  finished  his  last 
story. 

"  Well,  I  don't  vouch  for  the  truth  of  it  myself,'1  said  Peechy 
Prauw.  "though  all  the  world  knows  that  there's  something 
strange  about  the  house  and  grounds;  but  as  to  the  story  of 
Mud  Sam,  I  believe  it  just  as  well  as  if  it  had  happened  to 
myself." 

The  deep  interest  taken  in  this  conversation  by  the  company, 
had  made  them  unconscious  of  the  uproar  that  prevailed  abroad 
among  the  elements,  when  suddenly  they  were  all  electrified 
by  a  tremendous  clap  of  thunder.  A  lumbering  crash  followed 
instantaneously  that  made  the  building  shake  to  its  foundation. 
All  started  from  their  seats,  imagining  it  the  shock  of  an  earth- 
quake, or  that  old  father  red-cap  was  coming  among  them  in 
all  his  terrors.  They  listened  for  a  moment,  but  only  heard  the 
rain  pelting  against  the  windows,  and  the  wind  howling  among 
the  trees.  The  explosion  was  soon  explained  by  the  apparition 
of  an  old  negro's  bald  head  thrust  in  at  the  door,  his  white 
goggle  eyes  contrasting  with  his  jetty  poll,  which  was  wet  with 
rain  and  shone  like  a  bottle.  In  a  jargon  but  half  intelligible 
he  announced  that  the  kitchen  chimney  had  been  struck  with 
hghtning. 

A  sullen  pause  of  the  storm,  which  now  rose  and  sunk  in 
gusts,  produced  a  momentary  stillness.  In  this  interval  the 
report  of  a  musket  was  heard,  and  a  long  shout,  almost  like  a 


250  TAl  -I     TRAVELLER. 

yell,  resounded  from  the  shore.  Every  one  crowded  to  the 
window;  another  musket  shot  was  heard,  and  another  long 
shout,  that  mingled  wildly  with  a  rising  blast  of  wind.  It 
seemed  as  if  the  cry  came  up  from  the  bosom  of  the  waters;  for 
though  incessant  flashes  of  lightning  spread  a  light  about  the 
shore,  no  one  was  to  be  seen. 

Suddenly  the  window  of  the  room  overhead  was  opened,  and 
a  loud  halloo  uttered  by  the  mysterious  stranger.  Several  hail 
ings  passed  from  one  party  to  the  other,  but  in  a  language 
which  none  of  the  company  in  the  bar-room  could  understand ; 
and  presently  the}*  heard  the  window  closed,  and  a  great  noise 
overhead  as  if  all  the  furniture  were  pulled  and  hauled  about 
the  room.  The  negro  servant  was  summoned,  and  shortly  after 
3een  assisting  the  veteran  to  lug  the  ponderous  sea-chest 
down  stairs. 

The  landlord  was  in  amazement.  "  What,  you  are  not  going 
on  the  water  in  such  a  storm?" 

"Storm!"  said  the  other,  scornfully,  "do  you  call  such  a 
sputter  of  weather  a  storm?" 

"  You'll  get  drenched  to  the  skin— You'll  catch  your  death!" 
Bald  Peechy  Prauw,  affectionately. 

"Thunder  and  lightning!"  exclaimed  the  merman,  "don't 
preach  about  weather  to  a  man  that  has  cruised  in  whirlwinds 
and  tornadoc 

The  obsequious  Peechy  was  again  struck  dumb.  The  voice 
from  the  water  was  again  heard  in  a  tone  of  impatience ;  the 
bystanders  stared  with  redoubled  awe  at  this  man  of  storms, 
which  seemed  to  have  come  up  out  of  the  deep  and  to  be  called 
back  to  it  again.  As,  with  the  assistance  of  the  negro,  he  slowly 
bore  his  ponderous  sea-chest  towards  the  shore,  they  eyed  it 
with  a  superstitious  f  eeling ;  half  doubting  whether  he  were  not 
really  about  to  embark  upon  it,  and  launch  forth  upon  the  wild 
waves.     They  followed  him  at  a  distance  with  a  lanthorn. 

"  Douse  the  light!"  roared  the  hoarse  voice  from  the  water. 
"  No  one  wants  light  here !" 

"Thunder  and  lightning!"  exclaimed  the  veteran;  "back  to 
the  house  with  you !" 

Wolfert  and  his  companions  shrunk  back  is  dismay.  Still 
their  curiosity  would  not  allow  them  entirely  to  withdraw.  A 
long  sheet  of  ligntning  now  nickered  across  the  waves,  and 
discovered  a  boat,  filled  with  men,  just  under  a  rocky  point, 
rising  and  sinking  with  the  heavy  surges,  and  swashing  the 
water  at  every  heave.    It  was  with  difficulty  held  to  the  rocks 


ADVENTURE  OF  8AM,    THE  BLACK  FISHERMAN.    251 

by  a  boat  hook,  for  the  current  rushed  furiously  round  the 
point.  The  veteran  hoisted  one  end  of  the  lumbering  sea-chest 
on  the  gunwale  of  the  boat ;  he  seized  the  handle  at  the  other 
end  to  lift  it  in.  when  the  motion  propelled  the  boat  from  the 
shore;  the  chest  slipped  off  from  the  gunwale,  sunk  into  the 
waves,  and  pulled  the  veteran  headlong  after  it.  A  loud  shriek 
was  uttered  by  all  on  shore,  and  a  volley  of  execrations  by 
those  on  board ;  but  boat  and  man  were  hurried  away  by  the 
rushing  swiftness  of  the  tide.  A  pitchy  darkness  succeeded ; 
Woifert  Webber  indeed  fancied  that  he  distinguished  a  cry  for 
help,  and  that  he  beheld  the  drowning  man  beckoning  for 
assistance;  but  when  the  lightning  again  gleamed  along  the 
water  all  was  drear  and  void.  Neither  man  nor  boat  was  to  be 
seen ;  nothing  but  the  dashing  and  weltering  of  the  waves  as 
they  hurried  past. 

The  company  returned  to  the  tavern,  for  they  could  not 
leave  it  before  the  storm  shoidd  subside.  They  resumed  then- 
seats  and  gazed  on  each  other  with  dismay.  The  whole  transac- 
tion had  not  occupied  five  minutes  and  not  a  dozen  words  had 
been  spoken.  When  they  looked  at  the  oaken  chair  they 
could  scarcely  realize  the  fact  that  the  strange  being  who  had 
so  lately  tenanted  it,  full  of  life  and  Herculean  vigor,  shoidd 
already  be  a  corpse.  There  was  the  very  glass  he  had  just 
drunk  from ;  there  lay  the  ashes  from  the  pipe  which  he  had 
smoked  as  it  were  with  his  last  breath.  As  the  worthy  bur- 
ghers pondered  on  these  things,  they  felt  a  terrible  conviction 
of  the  uncertainty  of  human  existence,  and  each  felt  as  if  tho 
ground  on  which  he  stood  was  rendered  less  stable  by  this  awful 
example. 

Ajs,  however,  the  most  of  the  company  were  possessed  of  that 
valuable  philosophy  which  enables  a  man  to  bear  up  with  for- 
titude against  the  misfortunes  of  his  neighbors,  they  soon 
managed  to  console  themselves  for  the  tragic  end  of  the  veteran 
The  landlord  was  happy  that  the  poor  dear  man  had  paid  hie 
reckoning  before  he  went. 

"He  came  in  a  storm,  and  he  went  in  a  storm;  he  came  in 
the  night,  and  he  went  in  the  night;  he  came  nobody  knows 
from  whence,  and  he  has  gone  nobody  knows  where.  For 
aught  I  know  he  has  gone  to  sea  once  more  on  his  chest  and 
may  land  to  bother  some  people  on  the  other  side  of  the  world ! 
Though  it's  a  thousand  pities,"  added  the  landlord,  "if  he  has 
gone  to  Davy  Jones  that  he  had  not  left  his  sea-chest  behind 
bim 


252  TALES  OF  A    TRAVELLER 

"The  sea-chest!  St.  Nicholas  preserve  us!"  said  Peechy 
Prauw.  "I'd  not  have  had  that  sea-chest  in  the  house  for  any 
money ;  I'll  warrant  he'd  come  racketing  after  it  at  nights,  and 
making  a  haunted  house  of  the  inn.  And  as  to  his  going  to  sea 
on  his  chest,  I  recollect  what  happened  to  Skipper  Onderdonk's 
ship  on  his  voyage  from  A  an, 

"  The  boatswain  died  during  a  storm,  so  they  wrapped  him 
up  in  a  sheet,  and  put  him  in  his  own  sea-chest,  and  threw  him 
overboard;  but  they  neglected  in  their  hurry-skurry  to  say 
as  er  him — and  the  storm  raged  and  roared  louder  than 
i  I  they  saw  the  dead  man  seated  in  his  chest,  with  his 
shroud  for  a  sail,  coming  hard  after  the  ship;  and  the  sea 
king  before  him  in  great  sprays  like  fire,  and  there  they 
kept  scudding  day  alter  day  and  night  after  night,  expecting 
every  moment  to  go  to  wreck;  and  every  night  they  saw  the 
in  in  his  sea-chest  trying  to  get  up  with  them, 
and  they  heard  his  whistle  above  the  blasts  of  wind,  and  he 
seemed  to  send  great  seas  mountain  high  after   them,  that 
would  have  swamped  the  ship  if  they  had  not  put  up  the  dead 
j.     And  so  it  went  on  till  they  lost  sight  of  him  in  the  fogs 
of  Newfoundland,  and  supposed  he  had  veered  ship  and  stood 
for  Dead  Man's  Isle.    So  much  for  burying  a  man  at  sea  with- 
out saying  prayers  over  him." 
The  thunder-gust  which  had  hitherto  detained  the  company 
iow  at  an  end.     The  cuckoo  clock  in  the  hall  struck  mid- 
every  one  pressed  to  depart,  for  seldom  was  such  a  late 
hour  trespassed  on  by  these  quiet  burghers.    As  they  sallied 
forth  they  found  the  heavens  once  more  serene.    The  storm 
which  had  lately  obscured  them  had  rolled  away,  and  lay  piled 
up  in  fleecy  masses  on  the  horizon,  lighted  up  by  the  bright 
ent  of  the  moon,  which  looked  like  a  silver  lamp  hung  up 
in  a  palace  of  clouds. 
The  dismal  occurrence  of  the  night,  and  the  dismal  narra- 
bhey  had  made,  had  left  a  superstitious  feeling  in  every 
mind.     They  cast  a  fearful  glance  at  the  spot  where  the  bucca- 
neer had  disappeared,  almost  expecting  to  see  him  sailing  on 
his  chest  in  the  cool  moonshine.     The  trembling  rays  glittered 
along  the  waters,  but  all  was  placid ;  and  the  current  dimpled 
over  the  spot  where  he  had  gone  down.     The  party  huddled  to- 
gether in  a  little  crowd  as  they  repaired  homewards ;  particularly 
when  they  passed  a  lonely  field  where  a  man  had  been  mur- 
dered; and  he  who  had  farthest  to- go  and  had  to  complete  his 
journey  alone,  though  a  veteran  sexton,  and  accustomed,  one 


ADVENTURE  OF  SAM,    THE  BLACK  FISHERMAN.   253 

would  think  to  ghosts  and  goblins,  yet  went  a  long  way  round, 
rather  than  pass  by  his  own  church-yard. 

Wolf ert  Webber  had  now  carried  home  a  fresh  stock  of  stories 
and  notions  to  ruminate  upon.  His  mind  was  all  of  a  whirl 
with  these  f reebooting  tales ;  and  then  these  accounts  of  pots 
of  money  and  Spanish  treasures,  buried  here  and  there  and 
every  where  about  the  rocks  and  bays  of  this  wild  shore,  made 
him  almost  dizzy. 

u  Blessed  St.  Nicholas!"  ejaculated  ho,  half  aloud,  k'is  it  not 
possible  to  come  upon  one  of  these  golden  hoards,  and  so  make 
one's  self  rich  in  a  twinkling.  How  hard  that  I  must  go  on, 
delving  and  delving,  day  in  and  day  out,  merely  to  make  a 
morsel  of  bread,  when  one  lucky  stroke  of  a  spade  might  en- 
able me  to  ride  in  my  carriage  for  the  rest  of  my  life !" 

As  he  turned  over  in  his  thoughts  all  that  he  had  been  told 
of  the  singular  adventure  of  the  black  fisherman,  his  imagina- 
tion gave  a  totally  different  complexion  to  the  tale.     He  saw  in 
the  gang  of  redcaps  nothing  but  a  crew  of  pirates  burying  their 
spoils,  and  his  cupidity  was  once  more  awakened  by  the  possi- 
bility of  at  length  getting  on  the  traces  of  some  of  this  lurking 
wealth.     Indeed,  his  infected  fancy  tinged  every  tiling  with 
gold.     He  felt  like  the  greedy  inhabitant  of  Bagdad,  when  his 
eye  had  been  greased  with  the  magic  ointment  of  the  dervise, 
that  gave  him  to  see  all  the  treasures  of  the  earth.     Cask 
buried  jewels,  chests  of  ingots,  bags  of  outlandish  coins,  s< 
to  court  him  from  their  concealments,  and  supplicate  hi 
relieve  them  from  their  untimely  graves. 

On  making  private  inquiries  about  the  grounds  said  to  be 
haunted  by  father  red-cap,  he  was  more  and  more  cofirmed  in 
his  surmise.     He  learned  that  the  place  had  several  times  been 
visited  by  experienced  money -diggers,  who  had  heard   Mud 
Sam's  story,  though  none  of  them  had  met  with  success.     On 
the  contrary,  they  had  always  been  dogged  with  ill  luc 
some  kind  or  other,  in  consequence,  as  Wolf  ert  conclude 
their  not  going  to  work  at  the  proper  time,  and  with  the 
proper  ceremonials.      The  last  attempt  had   been   made  by 
Cobus  Quackenbos,  who  dug  for  a  whole  night  and  met  with 
incredible  difficulty,  for  as  fa3t  as  he  threw  one  shovel  full  oi 
earth  out  of  the  hole,  two  were  thrown  in  by  invisible  hi 
He  succeeded  so  far,  however,  as  to  uncover  an  iron  < 
when  there  was  a  terrible  ro  md  ramping,  and  raging  <>: 

uncouth  figures  about  the  hole,  and  at  length  a  shower  of 
blows,  dealt  by  invisible  cu  belabor*  9 


254  TALES  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

the  forbidden  ground.  This  Cobus  Quackenbos  had  declared 
on  his  death-bed,  so  that  there  could  not  be  any  doubt  of  it. 
He  was  a  man  that  had  devoted  many  years  of  his  life  to  money- 
digging,  and  it  was  thought  would  have  ultimately  succeeded, 
had  he  not  died  suddenly  of  a  brain  fever  in  the  alms-house. 

Wolfert  Webber  was  now  in  a  worry  of  trepidation  and 
impatience;  fearful  lest  some  rival  adventurer  should  get  a 
scent  of  the  buried  gold.  He  determined  privately  to  seek  out 
the  negro  fisherman  and  get  him  to  serve  as  guide  to  the 
place  where  he  had  witnessed  the  mysterious  scene  of  inter- 
ment. Sam  was  easily  found;  for  he  was  one  of  those  old 
habitual  beings  that  live  about  a  neighborhood  until  they  wear 
themselves  a  place  in  the  public  mind,  and  become,  in  a  man- 
mer,  public  characters.  There  was  not  an  unlucky  urchin 
about  the  town  that  did  not  know  Mud  Sam  the  fisherman, 
and  think  that  he  had  a  right  to  play  his  tricks  upon  the  old 
negro.  Sam  was  an  amphibious  kind  of  animal,  something 
more  of  a  fish  than  a  man ;  he  had  led  the  life  of  an  otter  for 
more  than  half  a  century,  about  the  shores  of  the  bay,  and  the 
fishing  grounds  of  the  Sound.  He  passed  the  greater  part  of 
his  time  on  and  in  the  water,  particularly  about  Hell  Gate: 
and  might  have  been  taken,  in  bad  weather,  for  one  of  the 
hobgoblins  that  used  to  haunt  that  strait.  There  would  he  be 
seen,  at  all  times,  and  in  all  weathers ;  sometimes  in  his  skiff, 
anchored  among  the  eddies,  or  prowling,  like  a  snarls  about  some 
wreck,  where  the  fish  are  supposed  to  be  most  abundant. 
Sometimes  seated  on  a  rock  from  hour  to  hour,  looming 
through  mist  and  drizzle,  like  a  solitary  heron  watching  for  its 
prey.  He  was  well  acquainted  with  every  hole  and  corner  of 
the  Sound ;  from  the  Wallabout  to  Hell  Gate,  and  from  Hell 
Gate  even  unto  the  Devil's  Stepping  Stones ;  and  it  was  even 
affirmed  that  he  knew  all  the  fish  in  the  river  by  their  chris- 
tian names. 

Wolfert  found  him  at  his  cabin,  which  was  not  much  larger 
than  a  tolerable  dog-house.  It  was  rudely  constructed  of  frag- 
ments of  wrecks  and  drift-wood,  and  built  on  the  rocky  shore, 
at  the  foot  of  the  old  fort,  just  about  what  at  present  forms  the 
point  of  the  Battery.  A  "most  ancient  and  fish-like  smell'' 
pervaded  the  place.  Oars,  paddles,  and  fishing-rods  were  lean- 
ing against  the  wall  of  the  fort ;  a  net  was  spread  on  the  sands 
to  dry;  a  skiff  was  drawn  up  on  the  beach,  and  at  the  door  of 
his  cabin  lay  Mud  Sam  himself,  indulging  in  a  true  negro's 
luxury— sleeping  in  the  smashine. 


A2TENTUKM  OF  SAM.    THE   BLACK    FI8RKRMAN.    256 

Many  years  had  passed  away  since  the  time  of  Sam's  youth- 
ful adventure,  and  the  snows  of  many  a  winter  had  grizzled 
the  knotty  wool  upon  his  head.  He  perfectly  recollected  the 
circumstances,  however,  for  he  had  often  been  called  upon  to 
relate  them,  though  in  his  version  of  the  story  he  differed 
in  many  points  from  Peechy  Prauw;  as  is  not  unfrequently 
the  case  with  authentic  historians.  As  to  the  subsequent 
researches  of  money-diggers,  Sam  knew  nothing  about  them ; 
they  were  matters  quite  out  of  his  line;  neither  did  the  cau- 
tious Wolfert  care  to  disturb  his  thoughts  on  that  point.  His 
only  wish  was  to  secure  the  old  fisherman  as  a  pilot  to  the 
spot,  and  tins  was  readily  effected.  The  long  time  that  had 
intervened  since  his  nocturnal  adventure  had  effaced  all  Sam's 
awe  of  the  place,  and  the  promise  of  a  trifling  reward  roused 
him  at  once  from  his  sleep  and  his  sunshine. 

The  tide  was  adverse  to  making  the  expedition  by  water, 
and  "Wolfert  was  too  impatient  to  get  to  the  land  of  promise, 
to  wait  for  its  turning ;  they  set  off,  therefore,  by  land.  A 
walk  of  four  or  five  miles  brought  them  to  the  edge  of  a  wood, 
which  at  that  time  covered  the  greater  part  of  the  eastern  side 
of  the  island.  It  was  just  beyond  the  pleasant  region  of 
Bloomen-dael.  Here  they  struck  into  a  long  lane,  straggling 
among  trees  and  bushes,  very  much  overgrown  with  weeds 
and  mullein  stalks  as  if  but  seldom  used,  and  so  completely 
overshadowed  as  to  enjoy  but  a  kind  of  twilight.  Wild  vines 
entangled  the  trees  and  flaunted  in  their  faces ;  brambles  and 
briars  caught  their  clothes  as  they  passed;  the  garter-snake 
glided  across  their  path ;  the  spotted  toad  hopped  and  waddled 
before  them,  and  the  restless  cat-bird  mewed  at  them  from 
every  thicket.  Had  Wolfert  Webber  been  deeply  read  in 
romantic  legend  lie  might  have  fancied  himself  entering  upon 
forbidden,  enchanted  ground;  or  that  these  were  some  of  the 
guardians  set  to  keep  a  watch  upon  buried  treasure.  As  it 
was,  the  loneliness  of  the  place,  and  the  wild  stories  connected 
with  it,  had  their  effect  upon  his  mind. 

On  reaching  the  lower  end  of  the  lane  they  found  themselves 
near  the  shore  of  the  Sound,  in  a  kind  of  amphitheatre,  sur- 
rounded by  forest  tree.  The  area  had  once  been  a  grass-plot, 
but  was  now  shagged  with  briars  and  rank  weeds.  At  one 
end.  and  just  on  the  river  bank,  was  a  ruined  building,  little 
better  than  a  heap  of  rubbish,  with  a  stack  of  chimneys  rising 
like  a  solitary  tower  out  of  the  centre.     The  current  of  the 


250  TALES  or  A    TRAVELLER 

Sound  rushed  along  just  below  it,  with  wildly  -grown  trees 
drooping  their  branches  into  its  waves. 

Wolfert  had  not  a  doubt  that  this  was  the  haunted  house  of 
father  red-cap,  and  called  to  mind  the  story  of  Peechy  Prauw. 
The  evening  was  approaching,  and  the  light  falling  dubiously 
among  these  places,  gave  a  melancholy  tone  to  the  scene,  well 
calculated  to  foster  any  lurking  feeling  of  awe  or  superstition. 
The  night-hawk,  wheeling  about  in  the  highest  regions  of  the 
~iir,  emitted  his  peevish,  boding  cry.  The  woodpecker  gave  a 
ionely  tap  now  and  then  on  some  hollow  tree,  and  the  fire- 
bird,* as  he  streamed  by  them  with  his  deep-red  plumage, 
seemed  like  some  genius  flitting  about  this  region  of  mystery. 

They  now  came  to  an  enlosure  that  had  once  been  a  garden. 
It  extended  alon^  the  foot  of  a  rocky  ridge,  but  was  little  bet- 
ter than  a  wilderness  of  weeds,  with  here  and  there  a  matted 
a  peach  or  plum  tree  grown  wild  and  ragged, 
ami  covered  with  moss.  At  the  lower  end  of  the  garden  they 
da  kind  of  vault  in  the  side  of  the  bank,  facing  the  water. 
It  had  the  look  of  a  root-house.  The  door,  though  decayed, 
still  strong,  and  appeared  to  have  been  recently  patched 
u i>.  Wolfert  pushed  it  open.  It  gave  a  harsh  grating  upon  its 
hinges,  and  striking  against  something  like  a  box,  a  rattling 
sound  ensued,  and  a  skull  rolled  on  the  floor.  Wolfert  drew 
1  >aek  shuddering,  but  was  reassured  on  being  informed  by  Sam 
that  this  was  a  family  vault  belonging  to  one  of  the  old  Dutch 
families  that  owned  this  estate;  an  assertion  which  was  cor- 
robrated  by  the  sight  of  coffins  of  various  sizes  piled  within. 
Ham  had  been  familiar  with  all  these  scenes  when  a  boy,  and 
now  knew  that  he  could  not  be  far  from  the  place  of  which 
J  ley  were  in  quest. 

They  now  made  their  way  to  the  water's  edge,  scrambling 
along  ledges  of  rocks,  and  having  often  to  hold  by  shrubs  and 
grape-vines  to  avoid  slipping  into  the  deep  and  hurried  stream. 
At  length  they  came  to  a  small  cove,  or  rather  indent  of  the 
shore.  It  was  protected  by  steep  rocks  and  overshadowed  by 
a  thick  copse  of  oaks  and  chestnuts,  so  as  to  be  sheltered  and 
almost  concealed.  The  beach  sloped  gradually  within  the 
cove,  but  the  current  swept  deep  and  black  and  rapid  along  its 
jutting  points  Sam  paused;  raised  his  remnant  of  a  hat,  and 
scratched  his  grizzled  poll  for  a  moment,  as  he  regarded  this 


*  Orchard  Oreole. 


ADVENTURE  OF  SAM,    THE  BLACK  FISHERMAN.   257 

nook:  then  suddenly  clapping  his  hands,  he  stepped  exultingly 
forward,  and  pointing  to  a  large  iron  ring,  stapled  firmly  in 
the  rock,  just  where  a  broad  shelve  of  stone  furnished  a  coin 
modious  landing-place.  It  was  the  very  spot  where  the  red- 
caps had  landed.  Years  had  changed  the  more  perishable 
features  of  the  scene;  but  rock  and  iron  yield  slowly  to  the 
influence  of  time.  On  looking  more  narrowly,  Wolfert  re 
marked  three  crosses  cut  in  the  rock  just  above  the  ring, 
which  had  no  doubt  some  mysterious  signification.  Old  Sam 
now  readily  recognized  the  overhanging  rock  under  which  his 
skiff  had  been  sheltered  during  the  thunder-gust.  To  follow  up 
the  course  which  the  midnight  gang  had  taken,  however,  was 
a  harder  task.  His  mind  had  been  so  much  taken  up  on  that 
eventful  occasion  by  the  persons  of  the  drama,  as  to  pay  but 
little  attention  to  the  scenes;  and  places  looked  different  by 
night  and  day.  After  wandering  about  for  some  time,  how- 
ever, they  came  to  an  opening  among  the  trees  which  Sam 
thought  resembled  the  place.  There  was  a  ledge  of  rock  of 
moderate  height  like  a  wall  on  one  side,  which  Sam  thought 
might  be  the  very  ridge  from  which  he  overlooked  the  diggers. 
Wolfert  examined  it  narrowly,  and  at  length  described  three 
crosses  similar  to  those  above  the  iron  ring,  cut  deeply  into  the 
face  of  the  rock,  but  nearly  obliterated  by  the  moss  that  had 
grown  on  them.  His  heart  leaped  with  joy,  for  he  doubted  not 
but  they  were  the  private  marks  of  the  buccaneers,  to  denote 
the  places  where  their  treasure  lay  buried.  All  now  that 
remained  was  to  ascertain  the  precise  spot;  for  otherwise  he- 
might  dig  at  random  without  coming  upon  the  spoil,  and  he 
has  already  had  enough  of  such  profitless  labor.  Here,  how- 
ever, Sam  was  perfectly  at  a  loss,  and,  indeed,  perplexed  him 
by  a  variety  of  opinions;  for  his  recollections  were  all  con- 
fused. Sometimes  he  declared  it  must  have  been 'at  the  foot  of 
a  mulberry  tree  hard  by;  then  it  was  just  beside  a  great  white 
stone;  then  it  must  have  been  under  a  small  green  knoll,  a 
short  distance  from  the  ledge  of  rock :  until  at  length  Wolfert 
became  as  bewildered  as  himself. 

The  shadows  of  evening  were  now  spreading  themselves  over 
the  woods,  and  rock  and  tree  began  to  mingle  together.  It  was 
evidently  too  late  to  attempt  anything  farther  at  present;  and, 
indeed,  Wolfert  had  come  unprepared  with  implements  to 
prosecute  his  researches.  Satisfied,  therefore,  with  baring 
ascertained  the  place,  he  took  note  of  all  its  landmarks,  that 
he  might  recognize  it  again,  and  set  out  on  his  return  home- 


258  TALES   OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

ward,  resolved  to  prosecute  this  golden  enterprise  without 
delay. 

The  leading  anxiety  which  had  hitherto  absorbed  every  feeL 
ing  being  now  in  some  measure  appeased,  fancy  began  to  wan- 
der, and  to  conjure  up  :i  thousand  shapes  and  chimeras  as  he 
returned  through  this  haunted  region.  •  Pirates  hanging  in 
chains  seemed  to  swing  on  every  tree,  and  he  almost  expected 
to  see  some  Spanish  Don,  with  his  throat  cut  from  ear  to  ear, 
rising  slowly  out  of  the  ground,  and  shaking  the  ghost  of  a 
money-bag. 

Their  way  back  lay  through  the  desolate  garden,  and  Wol- 
fort's  nerves  bad  arrived  at  so  sensitive  a  state  that  the  flitting 
of  a  bird,  the  rustling  of  a  leaf,  or  the  falling  of  a  nut  was 
enough  to  startle  him.  As  they  entered  the  confines  of  the 
garden,  they  caught  sight  of  a  figure  at  a  distance  advancing 
slowly  up  one  of  the  walks  and  bending  under  the  weight  of  a 
burthen.  They  paused  and  regarded  him  attentively.  He  wore 
what  appeared  to  be  a  woollen  cap,  and  still  more  alarming,  of 
a  most  sanguinary  red.  The  figure  moved  slowly  on,  ascended 
the  bank,  and  stopped  at  the  very  door  of  the  sepulchral  vault. 
Just  before  entering  he  looked  around.  What  was  the  horror 
of  Wolfert  when  he  recognized  the  grizzly  visage  of  the 
drowned  buccaneer.  He  uttered  an  ejaculation  of  horror. 
The  figure  slowly  raised  his  iron  fist  and  shook  it  with  a  ter- 
rible manace.  Wolfert  did  not  pause  to  see  more,  but  hurried 
off  as  fast  as  his  legs  could  carry  him,  nor  was  Sam  slow  in 
following  at  his  heels,  having  all  his  ancient  terrors  revived. 
Away,  then,  did  they  scramble,  through  bush  and  brake, 
horribly  frightened  at  every  bramble  that  tagged  at  their 
skirts,  nor  did  they  pause  to  breathe,  until  they  had  blundered 
their  way  through  this  perilous  wood  and  had  fairly  reached 
the  high-road  to  the  city. 

Several  days  elapsed  before  Wolfert  could  summon  courage 
enough  to  prosecute  the  enterprise,  so  much  had  he  been  dis- 
mayed by  the  apparition,  whether  living  dead,  of  the  grizzly 
buccaneer.  In  the  meantime,  what  a  conflict  of  mind  did  he 
silver !  He  neglected  all  his  concerns,  was  moody  and  restless 
all  day,  lost  his  appetite ;  wandered  in  his  thoughts  and  words, 
and  committed  a  thousand  blunders.  His  rest  was  broken; 
and  when  he  fell  asleep,  the  nightmare,  in  shape  of  a  huge 
money-bag,  sat  squatted  upon  his  breast.  He  babbled  about 
incalculable  sums ;  fancied  himself  engaged  in  money  digging ; 
threw  the  bed-clothes  right  and  left,  in  the  idea  that  he  was 


ADVENTURE  OF  SAM,    THE  BLACK  FISHERMAN.   259 

shovelling  among  the  dirt,  groped  under  the  bed  in  quest  of 
the  treasure,  and  lugged  forth,  as  he  supposed,  an  inestimable 
pot  of  gold. 

Dame  Webber  and  her  daughter  were  in  despair  at  what 
they  concieved  a  returning  touch  of  insanity.  There  are  two 
family  oracles,  one  or  other  of  which  Dutch  housewives  con- 
sult in  all  cases  of  great  doubt  and  perplexity :  the  dominie 
and  the  doctor.  In  the  present  instance  they  repaired  to  the 
doctor.  There  was  at  that  time  a  little,  dark,  mouldy  man  of 
medicine  famous  among  the  old  wives  of  the  Manhattoes  for 
his  skill  not  only  in  the  healing  art,  but  in  all  matters  of 
strange  and  mysterious  nature.  His  name  was  Dr.  Knipper- 
hausen,  but  he  was  more  commonly  known  by  the  appellation 
of  the  High  German  doctor.*  To  him  did  the  poor  women 
repair  for  counsel  and  assistance  touching  the  mental  vagaries 
of  Wolfert  Webber. 

They  found  the  doctor  seated  in  his  little  study,  clad  in  his 
dark  camblet  robe  of  knowledge,  with  his  black  velvet  cap, 
after  the  manner  of  Boorhaave,  Van  Helmont,  and  other  medi- 
cal sages :  a  pair  of  green  spectacles  set  in  black  horn  upon  his 
clubbed  nose,  and  poring  over  a  German  folio  that  seemed  to 
reflect  back  the  darkness  of  his  physiognomy.  The  doctor 
listened  to  their  statement  of  the  symptoms  of  Wolfert's 
malady  with  profound  attention ;  but  when  they  came  to  men- 
tion his  raving  about  buried  money,  the  little  man  pricked  up 
is  ears.     Alas,  poor  women !  they  little  knew  the  aid  they  had 

died  in. 

Dr.  Knipperhausen  had  been  half  his  life  engaged  in  seeking 
the  short  cuts  to  fortune,  in  quest  of  which  so  many  a  long 
lifetime  is  wasted.  He  had  passed  some  years  of  his  youth  in 
the  Harz  mountains  of  Germany,  and  had  derived  much  valu- 
able instruction  from  the  miners,  touching  the  mode  of  seek- 
ing treasure  buried  in  the  earth.  He  had  prosecuted  his 
studies  also  under  a  travelling  sage  who  united  all  the  mys- 
teries of  medicine  with  magic  and  legerdemain.  His  mind, 
therefore,  had  become  stored  with  all  kinds  of  mystic  lore :  he 
had  dabbled  a  little  in  astrology,  alchemy,  and  divination ; 
knew  how  to  detect  stolen  money,  and  to  tell  where  springs  of 
water  lay  hidden;  in  a  word,  by  the  dark  nature  of  his  knowl- 
edge he  had  acquired  the  name  of  the  High  German  doctor, 
which  is  pretty  nearly  equivalent  to  that  of  necromancer.     The 

*  The  same,  no  doubt,  of  whom  mention  is  made  in  the  history  of  Dolph  Heyliger. 


260  TALES  OF  A   TRA  VELLER. 

doctor  had  often  heard  rumors  of  treasure  being  buried  in 
various  parts  of  the  island,  and  had  long  been  anxious  to  get 
on  the  traces  of  it.  No  sooner  were  Wolfert's  waking  and 
sleeping  vagaries  confided  to  him,  than  he  beheld  in  them  the 
confirmed  symptoms  of  a  case  of  money-digging,  and  lost  no 
time  in  probing  it  to  the  bottom.  Wolfert  had  long  been 
sorely  depressed  in  mind  by  the  golden  secret,  and  as  a  family 
physician  is  a  kind  of  father  confessor,  he  was  glad  of  the 
opportunity  of  unburthening  himself.  So  far  from  curing,  the 
doctor  caught  the  malady  from  his  patient.  The  circum- 
stances unfolded  to  him  awakened  all  his  cupidity ;  he  had  not 
a  doubt  of  money  being  buried  somewhere  in  the  neighborhood 
of  the  mysterious  crosses,  and  offered  to  join  Wolfert  in  the 
search.  He  informed  him  that  much  secrecy  and  caution 
must  be  observed  in  enterprises  of  the  kind;  that  money  is 
only  to  be  digged  for  at  night ;  with  certain  forms  and  cere- 
monies; the  burning  of  drugs;  the  repeating  of  mystic  words, 
and  above  all,  that  the  seekers  must  be  provided  with  a  divin- 
ing rod,  which  had  the  wonderful  property  of  pointing  to  the 
very  spot  on  the  surface  of  the  earth  under  which  treasure  lay 
hidden.  As  the  doctor  had  given  much  of  his  mind  to  these 
matters,  he  charged  himself  with  all  the  necessary  prepara- 
tions, and,  as  the  quarter  of  the  moon  was  propitious,  he 
undertook  to  have  the  divining  rod  ready  by  a  certain  night.* 


♦The  following  note  was  found  appended  to  this  paper  in  the  handwriting  of 
Mr.  Knickerbocker.  "There  has  been  much  written  against  the  divining  rod  by 
those  light  minds  who  are  ever  ready  to  scoff  at  the  mysteries  of  nature,  but  I 
fully  join  with  Dr.  Knipperhausen  in  giving  it  my  faith.  I  shall  not  insist  upon  its 
efficacy  in  discovering  the  concealment  of  stolen  goods,  the  boundary-stones  of 
fields,  the  traces  of  robbers  and  murderers,  or  even  the  existence  of  subterraneous 
springs  and  streams  of  water:  albeit,  I  think  these  properties  not  easily  to  be  dis- 
credited, but  of  its  potency  in  discovering  vein  of  precious  metal,  and  hidden  sums 
of  money  and  jewels.|I  have  not  the  least  doubt.  Some  said  that  the  rod  turned  only 
in  the  hands  of  persons  who  had  been  born  in  particular  months  of  the  year;  hence 
astrologers  had  recourse  to  planetary  influence  when  they  would  procure  a  talis- 
man. Others  declared  that  the  properties  of  the  rod  were  either  an  effect  of 
chance,  or  the  fraud  of  the  holder,  or  the  work  of  the  devil.  Thus  sayeth  the  reve 
rend  Father  Gaspard  Schott  in  his  Treatise  on  Magic.  '  Proyter  hsec  et  simiiia 
argumenta  audacter  ego  pronuncio  vim  conversivam  virgulae  befurcatae  nequa- 
quam  naturalem  esse,  sed  vel  casa  vel  fraude  virgulam  tractantis  vel  ope  diaboli,' 
etc. 

"  Georgius  Agricula  also  was  of  opinion  that  it  was  a  mere  delusion  of  the  devil  to 
inveigle  the  avaricious  and  unwary  into  his  clutches,  and  in  his  treatise  '  de  re 
Metailica,'  lays  particular  stress  on  the  mysterious  words  pronounced  by  those 
persons  who  employed  the  divining  rod  during  his  time.  But  I  make  not  a  doubt 
that  the  divining  rod  is  one  of  those  secrets  of  natural  magic,  the  mystery  of 
which  is  to  be  explained  by  the  sympathies  existing  between  physical  things  oper- 
ated upon  by  the  planets,  and  rendered  efficacious  by  the  strong  faith  of  the  indi- 


ADVENTURB  OF  SAM,    THE  BLACK  FISHERMAN.   261 

Wolfert's  heart  leaped  with  joy  at  having  met  with  so 
learned  and  able  a  coadjutor.  Every  thing  went  on  secretly, 
but  swimmingly.  The  doctor  had  many  consultations  with 
his  patient,  and  the  good  women  of  the  household  lauded  the 
comforting  effect  of  his  visits.  In  the  meantime,  the  wonder- 
ful divining  rod,  that  great  key  to  nature's  secrets,  was  duly 
prepared.  The  doctor  had  thumbed  over  all  his  books  of 
knowledge  for  the  occasion;  and  Mud  Sam  was  engaged  to  take 
them  hi  his  skiff  to  the  scene  of  enterprise ;  to  work  with  spade 

id  pick-axe  in  unearthing  the  treasure;  and  to  freight  his 
bark  with  the  weighty  spoils  they  were  certain  of  finding. 

At  length  the  appointed  night  arrived  for  this  perilous 
undertaking.  Before  Wolfert  left  his  home  he  counselled  his 
wife  and  daughter  to  go  to  bed,  and  feel  no  alarm  if  he  should 
not  return  during  the  night.  Like  reasonable  women,  on 
being  told  not  to  feel  alarm-  they  fell  immediately  into  a  panic. 
They  saw  at  once  by  his  manner  that  something  unusual  was 
in  agitation;  all  their  fears  about  the  unsettled  state  of  his 
mind  were  roused  with  tenfold  force :  they  hung  about  him 
entreating  him  not  to  expose  himself  to  the  night  air,  but  all 
in  vain.  When  Wolfert  was  once  mounted  on  his  hobby,  it 
was  no  easy  matter  to  get  Mm  out  of  the  saddle.  It  was  a 
clear  starlight  night,  when  he  issued  out  of  the  portal  of  the 
Webber  palace.  He  wore  a  large  flapped  hat  tied  under  the 
chin  with  a  handkerchief  of  his  daughter's,  to  secure  him  from 
the  night  damp,  while  Dame  Webber  threw  her  long  red  cloak 
about  his  shoulders,  and  fastened  it  round  his  neck. 

The  doctor  had  been  no  less  carefully  armed  and  accoutred 
by  his  housekeeper,  the  vigilant  Frau  Ilsy,  and  sallied  forth  in 
his  camblet  robe  by  way  of  surtout ;  his  black  velvet  cap  under 
his  cocked  hat.  a  thick  clasped  book  under  his  arm,  a  basket  of 
dru.-rs  and  dried  herbs  in  one  hand,  and  in  the  other  the  mirac- 
ulous rod  of  divination. 

The  great  church  clock  struck  ten  as  Wolfert  and  the  doctor 
passed  by  the  church-yard,  and  the  watchman  bawled  in 
hoarse  voice  a  long  and  doleful  "All's  well!"  A  deep  sleep 
had  already  fallen  upon  tins  primitive  little  burgh:  nothing 


vidnal.  Let  the  divining  rod  be  properly  gathered  at  the  proper  time  of  the  moon, 
cut  into  the  proper  form,  used  with  the  necessary  ceremonies,  and  with  a  perfect 
faith  in  its  efficacy,  and  I  can  confidently  recommend  it  to  my  fellow-citizens  as  an 
infallible  means  of  discovering  the  various  places  on  the  island  of  the  ftfanhattoes 
•  reasure  hath  been  buried  in  the  olden  time. 

41  J>.  K." 


262  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

disturbed  this  awful  silence,  excepting  now  and  then  the  bark 
of  some  profligate  night- walking  dog,  or  the  serenade  of  some 
romantic  cat.  It  is  true,  Wolfert  fancied  more  than  once 
that  he  heard  the  sound  of  a  stealthy  footfall  at  a  distance 
behind  them;  but  it  might  have  been  merely  the  echo  of  their 
own  steps  echoing  along  the  quiet  streets.  He  thought  also  at 
one  time  that  he  saw  a  tall  figure  skulking  after  them— stop- 
ping when  they  stopped,  and  moving  on  as  they  proceeded; 
but  the  dim  and  uncertain  lamp  light  threw  such  vague 
gleams  and  shadows,  that  this  might  all  have  been  mere 
fancy. 

They  found  the  negro  fisherman  waiting  for  them,  smoking 
his  pipe  in  the  stern  of  his  skiff,  which  was  moored  just  in 
front  of  his  little  cabin.  A  pick-axe  and  spade  were  lying  in 
thebottom  of  the  boat,  with  a  dark  lanthorn,  and  a  stone  jug 
of  good  Dutch  courage,  in  which  honest  Sam  no  doubt,  put 
even  more  faith  than  Dr.  Knipperhausen  in  his  drugs. 

Thus  then  did  these  three  worthies  embark  in  their  cockle- 
shell of  a  skiff  upon  this  nocturnal  expedition,  with  a  wisdom 
and  valor  equalled  only  by  the  three  wise  men  of  Gotham,  who 
went  to  sea  in  a  bowl.  The  tide  was  rising  and  running  rap- 
idly up  the  Sound.  The  current  bore  them  along,  almost  with- 
out the  aid  of  an  oar.  The  profile  of  the  town  lay  all  in 
shadow.  Here  and  there  a  light  feebly  glimmered  from  some 
sick  chamber,  or  from  the*  cabin  window  of  some  vessel  at 
anchor  in  the  stream.  Not  a  cloud  obscured  the  deep  starry, 
firmament,  the  lights  of  which  wavered  on  the  surface  of  the 
placid  river ;  and  a  shooting  meteor,  streaking  its  pale  course 
in  the  very  direction  they  were  taking,  was  interpreted  by  the 
doctor  into  a  most  propitious  omon. 

In  a  little  while  they  glided  by  the  point  of  Corlears  Hook 
with  the  rural  inn  which  had  been  the  scene  of  such  night  ad- 
ventures. The  family  had  retired  to  rest,  and  the  house  was 
dark  and  still.  Wolfert  felt  a  chill  pass  over  him  as  they 
passed  the  point  where  the  buccaneer  had  disappeared.  He 
pointed  it  out  to  Dr.  Knipperhausen.  While  regarding  it,  they 
thought  they  saw  a  boat  actually  lurking  at  the  very  place ; 
but  the  shore  cast  such  a  shadow  over  the  border  of  the  water 
that  they  could  discern  nothing  distinctly.  They  had  not  pro- 
ceeded far  when  they  heard  the  low  sounds  of  distant  oars,  as 
if  cautiously  pulled.  Sam  plied  his  oars  with  redoubled  vigor, 
and  knowing  all  the  eddies  and  currents  of  the  stream,  soon 
left  their  followers,  if  such  they  were,  far  astern.     In  a  little 


ADVENTURE   OF  SAM,    THE  BLACK  FISHERMAN.   26*3 

while  they  stretched  across  Turtle  bay  and  Kip's  bay,  then 
shrouded  themselves  in  the  deep  shadows  of  the  Manhattan 
shore,  and  glided  swiftly  along,  secure  from  observation.  At 
length  Sam  shot  his  skiff  into  a  little  cove,  darkly  embowered 
by  trees,  and  made  it  fast  to  the  well  known  iron  ring.  They 
now  landed,  and  lighting  the  lanthorn,  gathered  their  various 
implements  and  proceeded  slowly  through  the  bushes.  Every 
sound  startled  them,  even  that  of  their  footsteps  among  the 
dry  leaves;  and  the  hooting  of  a  screech  owl,  from  the  shat- 
tered chimney  of  father  red-cap's  ruin,  made  their  blood  run 
cold. 

In  spite  of  all  Wolfert's  caution  in  taking  note  of  the  land- 
marks, it  was  some  time  before  they  could  find  the  open  place 
among  the  trees,  where  the  treasure  was  supposed  to  be  buried. 
At  length  they  came  to  the  ledge  of  rock ;  and  on  examining  its 
surface  by  the  aid  of  the  lanthorn,  Wolfert  recognized  the 
three  mystic  crosses.  Their  hearts  beat  quick,  for  the  moment- 
ous trial  was  at  hand  that  was  to  determine  their  hopes. 

The  lanthorn  was  now  held  by  Wolfert  Webber,  while  the 
doctor  produced  the  divining  rod.  It  was  a  forked  twig,  one 
end  of  which  was  grasped  firmly  in  each  hand,  while  the 
centre,  forming  the  stem,  pointed  perpendicularly  upwards. 
The  doctor  moved  this  wand  about,  within  a  certain  distance 
of  the  earth,  from  place  to  place,  but  for  some  time  without 
any  effect,  while  Wolfert  kept  the  light  of  the  lanthorn  turned 
full  upon  it.  and  watched  it  with  the  most  breathless  interest. 
At  length  the  rod  b^gan  slowly  to  turn.  The  doctor  grasped 
it  with  greater  earnestness,  his  hand  trembling  with  the  agita- 
tion of  his  mind.  The  wand  continued  slowly  to  turn,  until  at 
length  the  stem  had  reversed  its  position,  and  pointed  perpen- 
dicularly downward;  and  remained  pointing  to  one  spot  as 
fixedly  as  the  needle  to  the  pole. 

"This  is  the  spot!''  said  the  doctor  in  an  almost  inaudible 
tone. 

Wolfert's  heart  was  in  his  throat. 

"  Shall  I  dig?"  said  Sam,  grasping  the  spade. 

"Pots  tousends,  no!"  replied  the  little  doctor,  hastily.  Hi; 
now  ordered  his  companions  to  keep  close  by  him  and  to  main- 
tain the  most  inflexible1  silence.  That  certain  precautions  must 
be  taken,  and  ceremonies  used  to  prevent  the  evil  spirits  which 
keep  about  buried  treasure  from  doing  them  any  harm.  The 
doctor  then  drew  a  circle  round  the  place,  enough  to  include 
the  whole  party.     He  next  gathered  dry  twigs  and  leaves,  and 


g#4  1     I'UAYFJJ.Kll. 

made  a  fire,  upon  which  he  threw  certain  drugs  and  dried 
herbs  which  he  had  brought  in  his  basket.  A  thick  smoke 
rose,  diffusing  a  potent  odor,  savoring  marvellously  of  brim- 
stone and  assafcetida,  which,  however  grateful  it  might  be  to 
the  olfactory  nerves  of  spirits,  nearly  strangled  poor  Wolfert, 
and  produced  a  fit  of  coughing  and  wheezing  that  made  the 
whole  grove  resound.  Doctor  Knipperhausen  then  unclasped 
the  volume  which  he  had  brought  under  his  arm,  which  was 
printed  in  red  and  black  characters  in  German  text.  While 
Wolfert  held  the  lanthorn,  the  doctor,  by  the  aid  of  his  spec- 
tacles, read  oft  several  forms  of  conjuration  in  Latin  and  Ger- 
man. He  then  ordered  Sam  to  seize  the  pick-axe  and  proceed 
to  work.  The  close-bound  soil  gave  obstinate  signs  of  not  hav- 
ing been  disturbed  for  many  a  year.  After  having  picked  his 
way  through  the  surface,  Sam  came  to  a  bed  of  sand  and 
gravel,  which  he  threw  briskly  to  right  and  left  with  the  spade. 

"Hark!"  said  Wolfert,  who  fancied  he  heard  a  trampling 
among  the  dry  leaves,  and  a  rustling  through  the  bushes.  Sam 
paused  for  a  moment,  and  they  listened.  No  footstep  was 
near.  The  bat  flitted  about  them  in  silence;  a  bird  roused 
from  its  nest  by  the  light  which  glared  up  among  the  trees, 
flew  circling  about  the  flame.  In  the  profound  stillness  of  the 
woodland  they  could  distinguish  the  current  rippling  along  the 
rocky  shore,  and  the  distant  murmuring  and  roaring  of  Hell 
Gate. 

Sam  continued  his  labors,  and  had  already  digged  a  consider- 
able hole.  The  doctor  stood  on  the  edge,  reading  formulae 
every  now  and  then  from  the  black  letter  volume,  or  throwing 
more  drugs  and  herbs  upon  the  fire;  while  Wolfert  bent  anxi- 
ously over  the  pit,  watching  every  stroke  of  the  spade.  Any 
one  witnessing  the  scene  thus  strangely  lighted  up  by  fire, 
lanthorn,  and  the  reflection  of  Wolfert's  red  mantle,  might 
have  mistaken  the  little  doctor  for  some  foul  magician,  busied 
in  his  incantations,  and  the  grizzled-headed  Sam  as  some  swart 
goblin,  obedient  to  his  commands. 

At  length  the  spade  of  the  fisherman  struck  upon  something 
that  sounded  hollow.  The  sound  vibrated  to  Wolfert's  heart. 
He  struck  his  spade  again. 

"  'Tis  a  chest,"  said  Sam. 

"Full  of  gold,  I'll  warrant  it!"  cried  Wolfert,  clasping  his 
hands  with  rapture. 

Scarcely  had  he  uttered  the  words  when  a  sound  from  over- 
head caught  his  ear.     He  cast  up  his  eyes,  and  lo!   by  the 


ADVENTURE  OF  SAM,    THE  BLACK  FISHERMAN.   265 

expiring  light  of  the  fire  he  beheld,  just  over  the  disk  of  the 
rock,  what  appeared  to  be  the  grim  visage  of  the  drowned 
buccaneer,  grinning  hideously  down  upon  him. 

Wolfert  gave  a  loud  cry  and  let  fall  the  lanthorn.     His  panic 
communicated  itself  to  his  companions.     The  negro  leaped  out 
of  the  hole,  the  doctor  dropped  his  book  and  basket  and  began 
to  pray  in  German.     All  was  horror  and  confusion.     The  fire 
was  scattered  about,  the  lanthorn  extinguished.     In  their  hur- 
•ry-skurry  they  ran  against  and  confounded  one  another.    They 
fancied  a  legion  of  hobgoblins  let  loose  upon  them,  and  that 
they  saw  by  the  fitful  gleams  of  the  scattered  embers,  strange 
figures  in  red  caps  gibbering  and  ramping  around  them.     The 
doctor  ran  one  way,  Mud  Sam  another,  and  Wolfert  made  for 
the  water  side.     As  he  plunged  struggling  onwards  through 
bush  and  brake,  he  heard  the  tread  of  some  one  in  pursuit. 
He  scrambled  frantically  forward.     The  footsteps  gained  upon 
him.     He  felt  himself  grasped  by  his  cloak,  when  suddenly  his 
pursuer  was  attacked  in  turn:   a  fierce  fight  and  struggle 
msued — a  pistol  was  discharged  that  lit  up  rock  and  bush  for  a 
jriod,  and  showed  two  figures  grappling  together— all  was 
then  darker  than  ever.      The  contest  continued— the    com- 
itants  clenched  each   other,   and  panted  and  groaned,  and 
)lled  among  the  rocks.     There  was  snarling  and  growling  as 
)f  a  cur,  mingled  with  curses  in  which  Wolfert  fancied  he 
mid  recognize  the  voice  of  the  buccaneer.     He.  would  fain 
ive  fled,  but  he  was  on  the  brink  of  a  precipice  and  could  go 
10  farther. 
Again  the  parties  were  on  their  feet ;  again  there  was  a  tug- 
ig  and  struggling,  as  if  strength  alone  could  decide  the  corn- 
tot,  until  one  was  precipitated  from  the  brow  of  the  cliff  and 
?nt  headlong  into  the  deep  stream  that  whirled  below.     Wol- 
fert heard  the  plunge,   and  a   kind  of  strangling  bubbling 
Liirmur,  but  the  darkness  of  the  night  hid  every  thing  from 
dew,  and  the  swiftness  of  the  current  swept  every  thing 
istantly  out  of  hearing.     One  of  the  combatants  was  disposed 
of,   but   whether  friend  or  foe  Wolfert  could  not    tell,   nor 
whether  they  might  not  both  be  foes.     He  heard  the  survivor 
ipproach  and  his  tenor  revived.     He  saw,  where  the  profile  of 
the  rocks  rose  against  the  horizon,  a  human  form  advancing. 
te  could  not  be  mistaken:  it  must  be  the  buccaneer.    Whither 
Bhouldhcfly!  a  precipice  was  on  one  side;  a  murderer  on  1h^ 
other,    The  enemy  approached:  he  was  close  al  hand,    Wol- 
attempted  to  I  H  down  of  the  <  nit.    in> 


266  TALES   OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

cloak  caught  in  a  thorn  that  grew  on  the  edge.  He  was  jerked 
from  off  his  feet  and  held  dangling  in  the  air,  half  choaked  by 
the  string  with  which  his  careful  wile  had  fastened  the  gar- 
ment round  his  neck.  Wolfert  thought  his  Inst  moment  had 
arrived;  already  had  he  committed  his  soul  to  St.  Nicholas, 
when  the  string  broke  and  he  tumbled  down  the  bank,  bump- 
ing from  rock  to  rock  and  bush  to  bush,  and  leaving  the  red 
cloak  fluttering  like  a  bloody  banner  in  the  air. 

It  was  a  long  while  before  Wolfert  came  to  himself.  When 
he  opened  his  eyes  the  ruddy  streaks  of  the  morning  were 
already  shooting  up  the  sky.  He  found  himself  lying  in  the 
bottom  of  a  boat,  grievously  battered.  He  attempted  to  sit  up 
but  was  too  sore  and  stiff  to  move.  A  voice  requested  him  in 
friendly  accents  to  lie  still.  ITe  turned  his  eyes  toward  the 
speaker:  it  was  Dirk  Waldivn.  He  had  dogged  the  party,  at 
the  earriest  request  of  Dame  Webber  and  her  daughter,  who, 
with  the  laudable  curiosity  of  their  sex,  had  pried  into  the 
secret  consultations  of  Wolfert  and  the  doctor.  Dirk  had  been 
completely  distanced  in  following  the  light  skiff  of  the  fisher- 
man, and  had  just  come  in  time  to  rescue  the  poor  money- 
digger  from  his  pursuer. 

Thus  ended  this  perilous  enterprise.  The  doctor  and  Mud 
Sam  severally  found  their  way  back  to  the  Manhattoes,  each 
having  some  dreadful  tale  of  peril  to  relate.  As  to  poor  Wol- 
fert, instead  of  returning  in  triumph,  laden  with  bags  of  gold, 
he  was  borne  home  on  a  shutter,  followed  by  a  rabble  route  of 
curious  urchins.  His  wife  and  daughter  saw  the  dismal  pageant 
from  a  distance,  and  alarmed  the  neighborhood  with  their  cries : 
they  thought  the  poor  man  had  suddenly  settled  the  great  debt 
of  nature  in  one  of  his  wayward  moods.  Finding  him,  how- 
ever, still  living,  they  had  him  conveyed  speedily  to  bed,  and 
a  jury  of  old  matrons  of  the  neighborhood  assembled  to  deter- 
mine how  he  should  be  doctored.  The  whole  town  was  in  a 
buzz  with  the  story  of  the  money-diggers.  Many  repaired  to 
the  scene  of  the  previous  night's  adventures :  but  though  they 
found  the  very  place  of  the  digging,  they  discovered  nothing 
that  compensated  for  their  trouble.  Some  say  they  found  the 
fragments  of  an  oaken  chest  and  an  iron  pot-lid,  which  savored 
strongly  of  hidden  money ;  and  that  in  the  old  family  vault 
there  were  traces  of  bales  and  boxes,  but  this  is  all  very 
dubious. 

In  fact,  the  secret  of  all  this  story  has  never  to  this  day  been 
discovered :  whether  any  treasure  was  ever  actually  buried  at 


ADVBXTTTRE  OF  8AM,    THE  BLACK   mSHERMAtf.  of;? 

that  place ;  whether,  if  so,  it  was  carried  off  at  night  by  those 
who  had  buried  it;  or  whether  it  still  remains  there  under  tlv 
guardianship  of  gnomes  and  spirits  until  it  shall  be  properly 
sought  for,  is  all  matter  of  conjecture.  For  my  part  I  incline 
to  the  latter  opinion ;  and  make  no  doubt  that  great  sums  lie 
buried,  both  there  and  in  many  other  parts  of  tins  island  and 
its  neighborhood,  ever  since  the  times  of  the  buccaneers  and  the 
Dutch  colonists ;  and  I  would  earnestly  recommend  the  search- 
after  them  to  such  of  my  fellow  citizens  as  are  not  engaged  in 
any  other  speculations. 

There  were  many  conjectures  formed,  also,  as  to  who  and 
what  was  the  strange  man  of  the  seas  who  had  domineered 
over  the  little  fraternity  at  Corlears  Hook  for  a  time ;  disap- 
peared so  strangely,  and  reappeared  so  fearfully.  Some  sup- 
posed him  a  smuggler  stationed  at  that  place  to  assist  his 
comrades  in  landing  their  goods  among  the  rocky  coves  of  the 
island.  Others  that  he  was  a  buccaneer;  one  of  the  ancient 
comrades  either  of  Kidd  or  Bradish,  returned  to  convey  away 
treasures  formerly  hidden  in  the  vicinity.  The  only  circum- 
stance that  throws  any  thing  like  a  vague  light  over  this 
mysterious  matter  is  a  report  that  prevailed  of  a  strange  for- 
eign-built shallop,  with  the  look  of  a  piccaroon,  having  been 
seen  hovering  about  the  Sound  for  several  days  "without  land 
ing  or  reporting  herself,  though  boats  were  seen  going  to  and 
from  her  at  night :  and  that  she  Avas  seen  standing  out  of  the 
mouth  of  the  harbor,  in  the  gray  of  the  dawn  after  the  catas- 
trophe of  the  money-diggers. 

I  must  not  omit  to  mention  another  report,  also,  which  I 
confess  is  rather  apocryphal,  of  the  buccaneer,  who  was  sup- 
posed to  have  been  drowned,  being  seen  before  daybreak,  with 
a  lanthorn  in  his  hand,  seated  astride  his  great  sea-chest  and 
sailing  through  Hell  Gate,  which  just  then  began  to  roar  and 
bellow  with  redoubled  fury. 

While  all  the  gossip  world  was  thus  tilled  with  talk  and 
rumor,  poor  Wolfert  lay  sick  and  sorrowful  in  Ins  bed,  bruised 
in  body  and  sorely  beaten  down  in  mind.  His  wife  and  daugh- 
ter did  all  they  could  to  bind  up  his  wounds  both  corpora]  and 
spiritual.  The  good  old  dame  never  stirred  from  his  bedside, 
where  she  sat  knitting  from  morning  till  night ;  while  his 
daughter  busied  herself  about  him  with  the  fondest  care.  Nor 
did  they  lack  assistance  from  abroad.  Whatever  may  be  said 
of  the  desertions  of  friends  in  dista  ss,  they  had  no  complaint 
of  the  kind  to  make.     Not  an  the  neighborhood  but 


268  TALES  OF  A   TRAVELLER. 

abandoned  her  work  to  crowd  to  the  mansion  of  Wolfert 
Webber,  inquire  after  his  health  and  the  particulars  of  his 
story.  Not  one  came,  moreover,  without  her  little  pipkin  of 
pennyroyal,  sage,  balm,  or  other  herb-tea,  delighted  at  an 
opportunity  of  signalizing  her  kindness  and  her  doctorship. 
What  drenchings  did  not  the  poor  Wolfert  undergo,  and  all  in 
vain.  It  was  a  moving  sight  to  behold  him  wasting  away  day 
by  day  ;  growing  thinner  and  thinner  and  ghastlier  and  ghast- 
lier, and  staring  with  rueful  visage  from  under  an  old  patch- 
work counterpane  upon  the  jury  of  matrons  kindly  assembled 
to  sigh  and  groan  and  look  unhappy  around  him. 

Dirk  Waldron  was  the  only  being  that  seemed  to  shed  a  ray 
of  sunshine  into  this  house  of  mourning.  He  came  in  with 
cheery  look  and  manly  spirit,  and  tried  to  reanimate  the 
expiring  heart  of  the  poor  money-digger,  but  it  was  all  in  vain. 
Wolfert  was  completely  done  over.  If  any  thing  was  wanting 
to  complete  his  despair,  it  was  a  notice  served  upon  him  in  the 
midst  of  his  distress,  that  the  corporation  were  about  to  run  a 
new  street  through  the  very  centre  of  his  cabbage  garden.  He 
saw  nothing  before  him  but  poverty  and  ruin ;  his  last  reliance, 
the  garden  of  his  forefathers,  was;  to  be  laid  waste,  and  what 
then  was  to  become  of  his  poor  wife  and  child  ? 

His  eyes  filled  with  tears  as  they  followed  the  dutiful  Amy 
out  of  the  room  one  morning.  Dirk  Waldron  was  seated  beside 
him ;  Wolfert  grasped  his  hand,  pointed  after  his  daughter,  and 
for  the  first  time  since  his  illness  broke  the  silence  he  had  main- 
tained. 

"I  am  going!"  said  he,  shaking  his  head  feebly,  "and  when  I 
am  gone — my  poor  daughter—" 

" Leave  her  to  me,  father!"  said  Dirk,  manfully— "I'll  take 
care  of  her !" 

Wolfert  looked  up  in  the  face  of  the  cheery,  strapping 
youngster,  and  saw  there  was  none  better  able  to  take  care  of  a 
woman. 

' k  Enough, "  said  he,  ' '  she  is  yours ! — and  now  fetch  me  a  law- 
yer— let  me  make  my  will  and  die." 

The  lawyer  was  brought — a  dapper,  bustling,  round-headed 
little  man,  Roorback  (or  Rollebuck,  as  it  was  pronounced)  by 
name.  At  the  sight  of  him  the  women  broke  into  loud  lamen- 
tations, for  they  looked  upon  the  signing  of  a  will  as  the  signing 
of  a  death-warrant.  Wolfert  made  a  feeble  motion  for  them  to 
be  silent.  Poor  Amy  buried  her  face  and  her  grief  in  the  bed- 
curtain.     Dame  Webber  resumed  her  knitting  to  hide  her  dis- 


AbVisUXTUHlL    Ul-    SAM,    THE  BLACK   LlbUhliMAs.    %&) 

tress,  which  betrayed  itself,  however,  in  a  pellucid  tear,  that 
trickled  silently  down  and  hung  at  the  end  of  her  peaked  nose 
while  the  cat,  the  only  unconcerned  member  of  the  family, 
played  with  the  good  dame's  ball  of  worsted,  as  it  rolled  about 
the  floor. 

Wolfert  lay  on  his  back,  his  nightcap  drawn  over  his  fore- 
head ;  his  eyes  closed ;  his  whole  visage  the  picture  of  death. 
He  begged  the  lawyer  to  be  brief,  for  he  felt  his  end  approach- 
ing, and  that  he  had  no  time  to  lose.  The  lawyer  nibbed  his 
pen,  spread  out  his  paper,  and  prepared  to  write. 

''I  give  and  bequeath,''  said  Wolfert,  faintly,  "my  small 
farm — " 

"  What — all!"  exclaimed  the  lawayer. 

Wolfert  half  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  upon  the  lawyer. 

"Yes— all  "said  he. 

4 '  What !  all  that  great  patch  of  land  with  cabbages  and  sun- 
flowers, which  the  corporation  is  just  going  to  run  a  main  street 
through?" 

"The  same."  said  Wolfert,  with  a  heavy  sigh  and  sinking 
back  upon  his  pillow. 

"I  wish  him  joy  that  inherits  it!"  said  the  little  lawyer, 
chuckling  and  rubbing  his  hands  involuntarily. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  said  Wolfert,  again  opening  his  eyes. 

"That  he'll  be  one  of  the  richest  men  in  the  place !"  cried  little 
Rollebuck. 

The  expiring  Wolfert  seemed  to  step  back  from  the  threshold 
of  existence:  his  eyes  again  lighted  up;  he  raised  himself  in  his 
bed,  shoved  back  his  red  worsted  nightcap,  and  stared  broadly 
at  the  lawyer. 

"You  don't  say  so!v  exclaimed  he. 

"Faith,  but  I  do !"  rejoined  the  other.  "Why,  when  that 
great  field  and  that  piece  of  meadow  come  to  be  laid  out  in 
streets,  and  cut  up  into  snug  building  lots— why,  whoever  owns 
them  need  not  pull  off  his  hat  to  the  patroon!" 

"Say  you  so?"  cried  Wolfert,  half  thrusting  one  leg  out  of 
bed,  "  why,  then  I  think  I'll  not  make  my  will  yet!" 

To  the  surprise  of  everybody  the  dying  man  actually  re- 
covered. The  vital  spark  winch  had  glimmered  faintly  in  the 
socket,  received  fresh  fuel  from  the  oil  of  gladness,  which  the 
little  lawyer  poured  into  Ins  soul.  It  once  more  burnt  up  into 
a  flame. 

Give  physic  to  the  heart,  ye  who  would  revive  the  body  of  a 
spirit-broken  man:  In  a  fe  i  -lays  Wolfert  left  his  room;  in  a 
few  days  more  his  table  was  covered  with  deeds,  plana  of  streets 


270       •  TALKS  OF  A    TRAVELLER. 

and  building  lots.  Tittle  Rollebuck  was  constantly  with  him, 
his  right-hand  man  and  adviser,  and  instead  of  making  his 
will,  assisted  in  the  more  agreeable  task  of  making  his  fortune. 
In  fact,  Wolfert  Webber  was  one  of  those  worthy  Dutch  bur- 
ghers of  the  Manhattoes  whose  fortunes  have  been  made,  in  a 
manner,  in  spite  of  themselves;  who  have  tenaciously  held  on 
to  their  hereditary  acres,  raising  turnips  and  cabbages  about 
the  skirts  of  the  city,  hardly  able  to  make  both  ends  meets, 
until  the  corporation  has  cruelly  driven  streets  through  their 
abodes,  and  they  have  suddenly  awakened  out  of  a  lethargy, 
and.  to  their  astonishment,  found  themselves  rich  men. 

Before  many  months  had  elapsed  a  great  bustling  street 
passed  through  the  very  centre  of  the  Webber  garden,  just 
where  Wolfert  had  dreamed  of  finding  a  treasure.  His  golden 
dream  was  accomplished;  he  did  indeed  rind  an  unlooked-for 
source  of  wealth ;  for,  when  his  paternal  lands  were  distributed 
into  building  lots,  and  rented  out  to  safe  tenants,  instead  of 
producing  a  paltry  crop  of  cabbages,  they  returned  him  an 
abundant  crop  of  rents ;  insomuch  that  on  quarter  day,  it  was 
a  goodly  sight  to  see  his  tenants  rapping  at  his  door,  from 
morning  to  night,  each  with  a  little  round -bellied  bag  of  money, 
the  golden  produce  of  the  soil. 

The  ancient  mansion  of  his  forefathers  was  still  kept  up,  but 
instead  of  being  a  little  yellow-fronted  Dutch  house  in  a  gar- 
den, it  now  stood  boldly  in  the  midst  of  a  street,  the  grand 
house  of  the  neighborhood ;  for  Wolfert  enlarged  it  with  a  wing 
on  each  side,  and  a  cupola  or  tea  room  on  top,  where  he  might 
climb  up  and  smoke  his  pipe  in  hot  weather ;  and  in  the  course 
of  time  the  whole  mansion  was  overrun  by  .the  chubby -faced 
progeny  of  Amy  Webber  and  Dirk  Waldron. 

As  Wolfert  waxed  old  and  rich  and  corpulent,  he  also  set  up 
a  great  gingerbread-colored  carriage  drawn  by  a  pair  of  black 
Flanders  mares  with  tails  that  swept  the  ground ;  and  to  com- 
memorate the  origin  of  his  greatness  he  had  for  a  crest  a  full- 
blown cabbage  painted  on  the  pannels,  with  the  pithy  motto 
Allies  ?jtopf:  that  is  to  say,  all  head;  meaning  thereby  that  he 
had  risen  by  sheer  head-work. 

To  fill  the  measure  of  his  greatness,  in  the  fullness  of  time 
the  renowned  Eamm  Rapelye  slept  with  his  fathers,  and  Wol- 
fert Webber  succeeded  to  the  leathern-bottomed  arm-chair  in 
the  inn  parlor  at  Corlears  Hook ;  where  he  long  reigned  greatly 
honored  and  respected,  insomuch  that  he  was  never  known  to 
tell  a  story  without  its  being  believed,  nor  to  utter  a  joke  with- 
out its  being  laughed  at. 


BKACEBEIME  HALL; 


OR 


THE    HUMORISTS 


BY 


WASHINGTON     IRVING 


u  Under  this  cloud  I  walk,  gentlemen:  pardon  my  rude  assault.  I  am  a  traveller 
who.  having  surveyed  most  of  the  terrestrial  angles  of  this  globe,  am  hither  arrived, 
to  peruse  this  little  spot."— Christmas  Ordinary. 


BRACEBRIDGE  HALL;  OR,  THE  HUMOURISTS. 


CONTENTS. 


VOLUME  ONE.  piOE 

The  Hall 10 

The  Busy  Man 12 

Family  Servants 16 

The  Widow 21 

The  Lovers 24 

Family  Reliques 2B 

An  Old  Soldier 30 

The  Widow's  Retinue 33 

Ready-money  Jack 36 

Bachelors 40 

Wives 43 

Story-telling  -17 

Btoct  Gentleman 48 

F( (REST  Trees 57 

Literary  Antiquary 61 

The  Farm-house 66 

MANSHIP 69 

Love  Symptoms 72 

Falconry 74 

Hawking 78 

Saint  Mark's  Eve 83 

Gentility 89 

Fortune-telling '.•:; 

Love-charms ; % 

The  Library 99 

Student  of  Salamanca 101 

VOLUME  TWO. 

English  Country  Gentlemen 163 

Bachelor's  Confessions 169 

i  Gravity 172 

17G 

.......  180 


A  CONTENTS. 

^  »AGK 

183 

Village  Worthies 185 

The  Schoolmaster 189 

The  School ' " '  *  " ' ' jgg 

Village  Politician .........  195 

The  Rookery .............."....""■  201 

May-day 208 

The  Mam-script ........ 210 

Annette  Delarbre ' "   ' ' " '"  j ' 228 

Travelling ^ 240 

The  CVlprit '" 245 

Family  Misfortunes ....'...........  248 

Lover's  Troubles .......' 252 

The  Historian 254 

The  Haunted  House 257 

Dolph  Heyliger 288 

The  Storm-ship ^. 311 

The  Wedding ^  318 

The  Author's  Farewell 


BRACEBRIDGE  HALL; 


OR, 


THE     HUMOURISTS 

A  MEDLEY. 


By  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  Gent. 


UDder  this  cloud  I  walk,  Gentlemen  ;  pardon  my  rude  assault  I  am  a  traveller, 
who,  having  surveyed  most  of  the  terrestrial  angles  of  this  globe,  am  hither  ar- 
rived, to  peruse  this  little  spot.— Christmas  Ordinary. 

THE  AUTHOR. 
Worthy  Reader! 

On  again  taking  pen  in  hand,  I  would  fain  make  a  few  ob- 
servations at  the  outset,  by  way  of  bespeaking  a  right  under- 
standing. The  volumes  which  I  have  already  published  have 
met  with  a  reception  far  beyond  my  most  sanguine  expectations. 
I  would  willingly  attribute  this  to  their  intrinsic  merits ;  but,  in 
spite  of  the  vanity  of  authorship,  I  cannot  but  be  sensible  that 
leir  success  has,  in  a  great  measure,  been  owing  to  a  less  flat 
tering  cause.  It  has  been  a  matter  of  marvel,  to  my  European 
readers,  that  a  man  from  the  wilds  of  America  should  express 
himself  in  tolerable  English.  I  was  looked  upon  as  something 
new  and  strange  in  literature;  a  kind  of  demi-savage,  with  a 
feather  in  his  hand,  instead  of  on  his  head:  and  there  was  a 
mriosity  to  hear  what  such  a  being  had  to  Say  about  civilized 
nety. 

This  novelty  is  now  at  an  end,  and  of  course  the  feeling  <  >f 
idulgence  which  it  produced.  I  must  now  expect  to  bear  the 
•rutiny  of  sterner  criticism,  and  to  be  measured  by  the  same 


6  MACEBRtD&E  II ALL. 

standard  with  contemporary  writers ;  and  the  very  favor  which 
has  been  shown  to  my  previous  writings,  Avill  cause  these  to  be 
treated  with  the  greater  rigour ;  as  there  is  nothing  for  which 
the  world  is  apt  to  punish  a  man  more  severely,  than  for  having 
been  over-praised.  On  this  head,  therefore,  I  wish  to  forestah 
the  censoriousness  of  the  reader;  and  I  entreat  he  will  noi 
think  the  worse  of  me  for  the  many  injudicious  things  that  may 
have  been  said  in  my  commendation. 

I  am  aware  that  I  often  travel  over  beaten  ground,  and  trea* 
of  subjects  that  have  already  been  discussed  by  abler  pens. 
[ndeed,  various  authors  have  been  mentioned  as  my  models,  to 
whom  I  should  feel  nattered  if  I  thought  I  bore  the  slightest 
resemblance ;  but  in  truth  I  write  after  no  model  that  I  am 
conscious  of,  and  I  write  with  no  idea  of  imitation  or  competi- 
tion. In  venturing  occasionally  on  topics  that  have  already 
been  almost  exhausted  by  English  authors,  I  do  it,  not  with  the 
presumption  of  challenging  a  comparison,  but  with  the  hope 
that  some  new  interest  may  be  given  to  such  topics,  when  dis- 
cussed by  the  pen  of  a  stranger. 

If,  therefore,  I  should  sometimes  be  found  dwelling  with 
fondness  on  subjects  that  are  trite  and  commonplace  with  the 
reader,  I  beg  that  the  circumstances  under  which  I  write  may 
be  kept  in  recollection.  Having  been  born  and  brought  up  in  a 
new  country,  yet  educated  from  infancy  in  the  literature  of  an 
old  one,  my  mind  was  early  filled  with  historical  and  poetical 
associations,  connected  with  places,  and  manners,  and  customs 
of  Europe ;  but  which  could  rarely  be  applied  to  those  of  my 
own  country.  To  a  mind  thus  peculiarly  prepared,  the  most 
ordinary  objects  and  scenes,  on  arriving  in  Europe,  are  full  of 
strange  matter  and  interesting  novelty.  England  is  as  classic 
ground  to  an  American  as  Italy  is  to  an  Englishman ;  and  old 
London  teems  with  as  much  historical  association  as  mighty 
Rome. 

Indeed,  it  is  difficult  to  describe  the  whimsical  medley  of 
ideas  that  throng  upon  his  mind,  on  landing  among  English 
scenes.  He,  for  the  first  time,  sees  a  world  about  which  he  has 
been  reading  and  thinking  in  every  stage  of  his  existence.  The 
recollected  ideas  of  infancy,  youth,  and  manhood;  of  the  nursery, 
the  school,  and  the  study,  come  swarming  at  once  upon  him ; 
and  his  attention  is  distracted  between  great  and  little  objects ; 
each  of  which,  perhaps,  awakens  an  equally  delightful  train  of 
remembrances. 

But  what  more  especially  attracts  his  notice,  are  those  pecu- 


THE  AUTHOR.  7 

liarities  which  distinguish  an  old  country  and  an  old  state  of 
society  from  a  new  one.  I  have  never  yet  grown  familiar 
enough  with  the  crumbling  monuments  of  past  ages,  to  blunt 
the  intense  interest  with  which  I  at  first  beheld  them.  Accue 
famed  always  to  scenes  where  history  was,  in  a  manner,  in 
anticipation ;  where  every  thing  hi  art  was  new  and  progressive, 
and  pointed  to  the  future  rather  than  to  the  past ;  where,  in 
short,  the  works  of  man  gave  no  ideas  but  those  of  young  exis- 
tence, and  prospective  improvement;  there  was  something 
inexpressibly  touching  in  the  sight  of  enormous  piles  of  archi- 
tecture, gray  with  antiquity,  and  sinking  into  decay. .  I  cannot 
describe  the  mute  but  deep-felt  enthusiasm  with  which  I  have 
contemplated  a  vast  monastic  nun,  like  Tintern  Abbey,  buried 
in  the  bosom  of  a  quiet  valley,  and  shut  up  from  the  world,  as 
though  it  had  existed  merely  for  itself ;  or  a  warrior  pile,  like 
Conway  Castle,  standing  in  stern  loneliness  on  its  rocky  height, 
a  mere  hollow  yet  threatening  phantom  of  departed  power. 
They  spread  a  grand,  and  melancholy,  and,  to  me,  an  unusual 
charm  over  the  landscape ;  I,  for  the  first  time,  beheld  signs  of 
national  old  age,  and  empire's  decay,  and  proofs  of  the  tran- 
sient and  perishing  glories  of  art,  amidst  the  ever-springing  and 
reviving  fertility  of  nature. 

But,  in  fact,  to  me  every  thing  was  full  of  matter ;  the  foot- 
steps of  history  were  every  where  to  be  traced ;  and  poetry  had 
breathed  over  and  sanctified  the  land.  I  experienced  the  de- 
lightful freshness  of  feeling  of  a  child,  to  whom  every  thing  is 
new.  I  pictured  to  myself  a  set  of  inhabitants  and  a  mode  of 
life  for  every  habitation  that  I  saw,  from  the  aristocratic -a  i 
mansion,  amidst  the  lordly  repose  of  stately  groves  and  solitary 
parts,  to  the  straw-thatched  cottage,  with  its  scanty  garden 
and  its  cherished  woodbine.  I  thought  I  never  could  be  Bated 
with  the  sweetness  and  freshness  of  a  country  so  completely 
carpeted  with  verdure;  where  every  ah-  breathed  of  the  balmy 
pasture,  and  the  honey-suckled  hedge.  I  was  continuaUy 
coming  upon  some  little  document  of  poetry,  in  the  blossomed 
hawthorn,  the  daisy,  the  cowslip,  the  primrose,  or  some  other 
simple  object  that  has  received  a  supernatural  value  from  the 
muse.  The  first  time  that  I  heard  the  song  of  the  nightingale, 
I  was  intoxicated  more  by  the  delicious  crowd  of  remembered 
associations  than  by  the  melody  of  its  notes ;  and  I  shall  never 
forget  the  thrill  of  ecstasy  with  which  I  first  saw  the  lark  rise, 
almost  from  beneath  my  feet,  and  wing  its  musical  flight  up 
into  the  morning  sky. 


8  BRACKBRIDGE  BALL. 

In  this  way  I  traversed  England,  a  grown-up  child,  delighted 
by  every  object,  great  and  small;  and  betraying  a  wondering 
ignorance,  and  simple  enjoyment,  that  provoked  many  a  stare 
and  a  smile  from  my  wiser  and  more  experienced  fellow-tra 
vellers.  Such  too  was  the  odd  confusion  of  associations  that 
kept  breaking  upon  me,  as  I  first  approached  London.  One  ot 
my  earliest  wishes  had  been  to  see  this  great  metropolis.  I  had 
read  so  much  about  it  in  the  earliest  books  that  had  been  pu( 
into  my  infant  hands:  and  I  had  heard  so  much  about  it  from 
those  around  me  who  Lad  come  from  the  "old  countries."  I 
was  familiar  with  the  names  of  its  streets,  and  squares,  and 
public  places,  before  I  knew  those  of  my  native  city.  It  was, 
to  me,  the  great  centre  of  the  world,  round  which  every  thing 
seemed  to  revolve.  I  recollect  ct  ml  em  plating  so  wistfully,  when 
a  boy,  a  paltry  little  print  of  the  Thames,  and  London  Bridge, 
and  St.  Paul's,  that  was  in  front  of  an  old  magazine ;  and  a  pic- 
ture of  Kensington  Gardens,  with  gentlemen  in  three-cornered 
hats  and  broad  skirts,  and  ladies  in  hoops  and  lappets,  that 
hung  up  in  my  bed-room;  even  the  venerable  cut  of  St. 
John's  Grate,  that  has  stood,  time  out  of  mind,  in  front  of  the 
Gentleman's  Magazine,  was  not  without  its  charms  to  me;  and 
[  envied  the  odd-looking  little  men  that  appeared  to  be  loitering 
about  its  arches. 

How  then  did  my  heart  warm  when  the  towers  of  West- 
minster Abbey  were  pointed  out  to  me,  rising  above  the  rich 
groves  of  St.  James's  Park,  with  a  thin  blue  haze  about  their 
gray  pinnacles  1  I  could  not  behold  this  great  mausoleum  of 
what  is  most  illustrious  in  our  paternal  history,  without  feeling 
my  enthusiasm  in  a  glow.  With  what  eagerness  did  I  explore 
every  part  of:  the  metropolis!  I  was  not  content  with  those 
matters  which  occupy  the  dignified  research  of  the  learned 
traveller ;  I  delighted  to  call  up  all  the  feelings  of  childhood,  and 
to  seek  after  those  objects  which  had  been  the  wonders  of  my 
infancy.  London  Eridge,  so  famous  in  nursery  songs ;  the  far- 
famed  Monument;  Gog  and  Magog,  and  the  Lions  in  the  Tower, 
all  brought  back  many  a  recollection  of  infantile  delight,  and 
of  good  old  beings,  now  no  more,  who  had  gossiped  about 
them  to  my  wondering  ear.  Nor  was  it  without  a  recurrence  ot 
childish  interest,  that  I  first  peeped  into  Mr.  Newberry's  shop, 
in  St.  Paul's  Church-yard,  that  fountain-head  of  literature. 
Mr.  Newberry  was  the  first  that  ever  filled  my  infant  mind 
with  the  idea  of  a  great  and  good  man.  He  published  all  the 
picture-books  of  the  day;  and,  out  of  his  abundant  love  for 


THE  AUTHOR  9 

ciiildren,  he  charged  "nothing  for  either  paper  or  print,  and 
only  a  penny-halfpenny  for  the  binding !" 

I  have  mentioned  these  circumstances,  worthy  reader,  to 
show  you  the  whimsical  crowd  of  associations  that  are  apt  to 
beset  my  mind  on  mingling  among  English  scenes.  I  hope  they 
may.  in  some  measure,  plead  my  apology,  should  I  be  found 
harping  upon  stale  and  trivial  themes-  or  indulging  an  over- 
fondness  for  any  thing  antique  and  obsolete.  I  know  it  is  the 
humour,  not  to  say  cant  of  the  day,  to  run  riot  about  old  times;, 
old  books,  old  customs,  and  old  buildings;  with  myself,  how- 
ever, as  far  as  I  have  caught  the  contagion,  the  feeling  is 
genuine.  To  a  man  from  a  young  country,  all  old  things  are 
in  a  manner  new ;  and  he  may  surely  be  excused  in  being  a 
little  curious  about  antiquities,  whose  native  land,  unfortun- 
ately, cannot  boast  of  a  single  ruin. 

Having  been  brought  up,  also,  in  the  comparative  simplicity 
of  a  republic,  I  am  apt  to  be  struck  with  even  the  ordinary 
circumstances  incident  to  an  aristocratical  state  of  society. 
If,  however,  I  should  at  any  time  amuse  myself  by  pointing 
out  some  of  the  eccentricities,  and  some  of  the  poetical  charac- 
teristics of  the  latter,  I  would  not  be  understood  as  pretending 
to  decide  upon  its  political  merits.  My  only  aim  is  to  paint 
characters  and  manners.  I  am  no  politician.  The  more  I  have 
considered  the  study  of  politics,  the  more  I  have  found  it  full 
of  perplexity ;  and  I  have  contented  myself,  as  I  have  in  my 
religion,  with  the  faith  in  which  I  was  brought  up,  regulating 
my  own  conduct  by  its  precepts ;  but  leaving  to  abler  heads 
the  task  of  making  converts. 

I  shall  continue  on,  therefore,  in  the  course  I  have  hitherto 
pursued;  looking  at  things  poetically,  rather  than  politically; 
describing  them  as  they  are,  rather  than  pretending  to  point 
out  how  they  should  be ;  and  endeavouring  to  see  the  world  in 
as  pleasant  a  light  as  circumstances  will  permit. 

I  have  always  had  an  opinion  that  much  good  might  be  done 
by  keeping  mankind  in  good-humour  with  one  another.  I  may 
be  wrong  in  my  philosophy,  but  I  shall  continue  to  practise  it 
until  convinced  of  its  fallacy.  When  I  discover  the  world  U 
be  all  that  it  has  been  represented  by  sneering  cynics  and 
whining  poets,  I  will  turn  to  and  abuse  it  also ;  in  the  mean- 
while, worthy  reader,  I  hope  you  will  not  think  lightly  of  me, 
because  I  cannot  believe  this  to  be  so  very  bad  a  world  as  \t  is 
represented.  • 

Thine  truly,  Geoffrey  Crayon, 


10  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 


THE  HALL. 

The  ancient  house,  and  the  best  tor  fc  usekeepmg  in  this  county  or  the  next;  an-, 
though  the  master  of  it  write  but  squire,  I  know  no  lord  like  him.— Merry  Beggars. 

The  reader,  if  he  has  perused  the  volumes  of  the  Sketch 
Book,  will  probably  recollect  something  of  the  Bracebridgf. 
family,  with  which  I  ouce  passed  a  Christmas.  I  am  now  on 
another  visit  to  the  Hall,  having  been  invited  to  a  wedding 
which  is  shortly  to  take  place.  The  Squire's  second  son,  Guy, 
a  fine,  spirited  young  captain  in  the  army,  is  about  to  be  mar- 
ried to  his  father's  ward,  the  fair  Julia  Templeton.  A  gather- 
ing of  relations  and  friends  has  already  commenced,  to  celebrate 
the  joyful  occasion;  for  the  old  gentleman  is  an  enemy  to  quiet, 
private  weddings.  " There  is  nothing,"  he  says,  "like  launch- 
ing a  young  couple  gayly,  and  cheering  them  from  the  shore; 
a  good  outset  is  half  the  voyage." 

Before  proceeding  any  farther,  I  would  beg  that  the  Squire 
might  not  be  confounded  with  that  class  of  hard-riding,  fox- 
hunting gentlemen  so  often  described,  and,  in  fact,  so  nearly 
extinct  in  England.  I  use  this  rural  title  partly  because  it  is 
his  universal  appellation  throughout  the  neighbourhood,  and 
partly  because  it  saves  me  the  frequent  repetition  of  his  name, 
which  is  one  of  those  rough  old  English  names  at  which 
Frenchmen  exclaim  in  despair. 

The  Squire  is,  in  fact,  a  lingering  specimen  of  the  old  English 
country  gentleman;  rusticated  a  little  by  living  almost  entirely 
on  his  estate,  and  something  of  a  humourist,  as  Englishmen  are 
apt  to  become  when  they  have  an  opportunity  of  living  in  their 
own  wav.  I  like  his  hobby  passing  well,  however,  which  is,  a 
bigoted  devotion  to  old  English  manners  and  customs;  it  jumps 
a  little  with  my  own  humor,  having  as  yet  a  lively  and  unsated 
curiosity  about  the  ancient  and  genuine  characteristics  of  mj 
"fatherland." 

There  are  some  traits  about  the  Squire's  family,  also,  which 
appear  to  me  to  be  national.  It  is  one  of  those  old  aristocrati- 
cal  families,  which,  I  believe,  are  peculiar  to  England,  and 
scarcely  understood  in  other  countries ;  that  is  to  say,  families 
of  the  ancient  gentry,  who,  though  destitute  of  titled  rank, 
maintain  a  high  ancestral  pride;  who  look  down  upon  all 
nobility  of  recent  creation,  and  wouldconsider  it  p.  ^acrifi 


THE  HALL.  j  j 

dignity  to  merge  the  venerable   name   of  their   house   in    u 
modern  title. 

This  feeling  is  very  much  fostered  by  the  importance  which 
they  enjoy  on  their  hereditary  domains.  The  family  mansion 
is  an  old  manor-house,  standing  in  a  retired  and  beautiful  part 
of  Yorkshire.  Its  inhabitants  have  been  always  regarded, 
through  the  surrounding  country,  as  "the  great  ones  of  the 
earth;"  and  the  little  village  near  the  Hall  looks  up  to  the 
Squire  with  almost  feudal  homage.  An  old  manor-house,  and 
an  old  family  of  this  kind,  are  rarely  to  be  met  with  at  the 
present  day:  and  it  is  probably  the  peculiar  humour  of  the 
Squire  that  has  retained  this  secluded  specimen  of  English 
housekeeping  in  something  like  the  genuine  old  style. 

I  am  again  quartered  in  the  panelled  chamber,  hi  the  antique 
wing  of  the  house.  The  prospect  from  the  window,  however, 
has  quite  a  different  aspect  from  that  which  it  wore  on  my 
winter  visit.  Though  early  in  the  month  of  April,  yet  a  few 
warm,  sunshiny  days  have  drawn  forth  the  beauties  of  the 
spring,  which,  I  think,  are  always  most  captivating  on  their 
first  opening.  The  parterres  of  the  old-fashioned  garden  are 
gay  with  flowers;  and  the  gardener  has  brought  out  his  exotics, 
and  placed  them  along  the  stone  balustrades.  The  trees  are 
clothed  with  green  buds  and  tender  leaves.  When  I  throwT 
open  my  jingling  casement,  I  smell  the  odour  of  mignonette, 
and  hear  the  hum  of  the  bees  from  the  flowTers  against  the 
sunny  wall,  with  the  varied  song  of  the  throstle,  and  the  cheer- 
ful notes  of  the  tuneful  little  wren. 

While  sojourning  in  this  strong-hold  of  old  fashions,  it  is  my 
intention  to  make  occasional  sketches  of  th<  vones  and  charac- 
ters before  me.  I  would  have  it  understood,  however,  that  I 
am  not  writing  a  novel,  and  have  nothing  of  intricate  plot,  or 
marvellous  adventure,  to  promise  the  reader.  The  Hall  of 
which  I  treat,  has,  for  aught  I  know,  neither  trap-door,  nor 
sliding-panel,  nor  donjon-keep ;  and  indeed  appears  to  have  no 
mystery  about  it.  The  family  is  a  worthy,  well-meaning 
family,  that,  in  all  probability,  will  eat  and  drink,  and  go  to 
bed,  and  get  up  regularly,  from  one  end  of  my  wrork  to  the 
other;  and  the  Squire  is  so  kind-hearted  an  old  gentleman,  that 
I  see  no  likelihood  of  his  throwing  any  kind  of  distress  in  the 
way  of  the  approaching  nuptials.  In  a  word,  I  cannot  fore- 
single  extraordinary  event  that  is  likely  to  occur  in  the 
whole  term  of  my  sojourn  at  the  Hall. 

I  tell  this  honestly  to  the  reader,  le^i,  when  he  find.- 


12  BRACEBRIDQB  HALL. 

dallying  along,  through  every-day  English  scenes,  he  may 
hurry  ahead,  in  hopes  of  meeting  with  some  marvellous  advem 
ture  further  on.  I  invite  him,  on  the  contrary,  to  ramble 
gently  on  with  me,  as  he  would  saunter  out  into  the  fields, 
stopping  occasionally  to  gather  a  flower,  or  listen  to  a  bird,  or 
admire  a  prospect,  without  any  anxiety  to  arrive  at  the  end  of 
his  career.  Should  I,  however,  in  the  course  of  my  loiterings 
about  this  old  mansion,  see  or  hear  anything  curious,  that 
might  serve  to  vary  the  monotony  of  this  e very-day  life,  I 
shall  not  fail  to  report  it  for  the  readers  entertainment: 

For  freshest  wits  1  know  will  soon  be  wearie 

Of  any  book,  how  ^rave  so  e'er  it  be, 
Except-  it,  have  odd  matter,  strange  and  merrie, 

Well  sauc"d  with  lies  and  glared  all  with  glee.* 


THE  BUSY  MAN. 


A  deenyrd  gentleman,  who  lives  most  upon  his  own  mirth  and  my  master's 
means,  and  much  good  do  him  with  it.  lie  does  hold  my  master  up  with  his 
stories,  and  songs,  and  catches,  and  such  tricks  and  jigs,  you  would  admire— he  ia 
with  him  mow.— Jovial  Crew. 

By  no  one  has  my  return  to  the  Hall  been  more  heartily 
greeted  than  by  Mr.  Simon  Bracebridge,  or  Master  Simon,  as 
the  Squire  most  commonly  calls  him.  I  encountered  him  just 
as  I  entered  the  park,  where  he  was  breaking  a  pointer,  and  he 
received  me  with  all  the  hospitable  cordiality  with  which  a 
man  welcomes  a  friend  to  another  one's  house.  I  have  already 
introduced  him  to  the  reader  as  a  brisk  old  bachelor-looking 
little  man ;  the  wit  and  superannuated  beau  of  a  large  family 
connection,  and  the  Squire's  factotum.  I  found  him,  as  usual, 
full  of  bustle ;  with  a  thousand  petty  things  to  do,  and  persons 
to  attend  to,  and  in  chirping  good-humour ;  for  there  are  few 
happier  beings  than  a  busy  idler ;  that  is  to  say,  a  man  who  is 
eternally  busy  about  nothing. 

I  visited  him,  the  morning  after  my  arrival,  in  his  chamber, 
which  is  in  a  remote  corner  of  the  mansion,  as  he  says  he  likes 
to  be  to  himself,  and  out  of  the  way.  He  has  fitted  it  up  in  his 
own  taste,  so  that  it  is  a  perfect  epitome  of  an  old  bachelor's 
notions  of  convenience  and  arrangement.      The  furniture  is 


*  Mirror  for  Magistrates 


THE  BUSY  MAN.  13 

made  up  of  odd  pieces  from  all  parts  of  the  house,  chosen  on 
account  of  their  suiting  his  notions,  or  fitting  some  corner  of 
his  apartment ;  and  he  is  very  eloquent  in  praise  of  an  ancient 
elbow-chair,  from  which  he  takes  occasion  to  digress  into  a 
censure  on  modern  chairs,  as  having  degenerated  from  the 
dignity  and  comfort  of  high-backed  antiquity. 

Adjoining  to  his  room  is  a  small  cabinet,  which  he  calls  his 
Study,  Here  are  some  hanging  shelves,  of  his  own  construe 
tion,  on  which  are  several  old  -works  on  hawking,  hunting,  and 
farriery,  and  a  collection  or  two  of  poems  and  songs  of  the 
reign  of  Elizabeth,  which  he  studies  out  of  compliment  to  the 
Squire;  together  with  the  Novelist's  Magazine,  the  Sporting 
Magazine,  the  Racing  Calendar,  a  volume  or  two  of  the  New- 
gate Calendar,  a  book  of  peerage,  and  another  of  heraldry. 

His  sporting  dresses  hang  on  pegs  in  a  small  closet;  and 
about  the  walls  of  his  apartment  are  hooks  to  hold  his  fishing- 
tackle,  whips,  spurs,  and  a  favourite  fowling-piece,  curiously 
wrought  and  inlaid,  which  he  inherits  from  his  grandfather. 
He  has,  also,  a  couple  of  old  single-keyed  flutes,  and  a  fiddle 
which  he  has  repeatedly  patched  and  mended  himself,  affirming 
it  to  be  a  veritable  Cremona,  though  I  have  never  heard  him 
extract  a  single  note  from  it  that  was  not  enough  to  make  one's 
blood  run  cold. 

From  this  little  nest  his  fiddle  will  often  be  heard,  in  the 
stillness  of  mid-day,  drowsily  sawing  some  long-forgotten  tune ; 
for  he  prides  himself  on  having  a  choice  collection  of  good  old 
English  music,  and  will  scarcely  have  any  thing  to  do  with 
modern  composers.  The  time,  however,  at  which  his  musical 
powers  are  of  most  use,  is  now  and  then  of  an  evening,  when 
he  plays  for  the  children  to  dance  in  the  hall,  and  he  passes 
among  them  and  the  servants  for  a  perfect  Orpheus. 

His  chamber  also  bears  evidence  of  his  various  avocations 
there  are  half-copied  sheets  of  music;  designs  for  needle-work; 
skotcnes  of  landscapes,  very  indifferently  executed ;  a  camera 
lucida;  a  magic  lantern,  for  which  he  is  endeavoring  to  paint 
glasses;  in  a  word,  it  is  the  cabinet  of  a  man  of  many  accom- 
plishments, who  knows  a  little  of  everything,  and  docs  nothing 
well. 

After  I  had  spent  some  time  in  his  apartment,  admiring  the 
ingenuity  of  his  small  inventions,  he  took  me  about  the  estab- 
lishment, to  visit  the  stables,  do^-kennel,  and  other  dependen- 
cies, in  which  he  appeared  like  a  general  visiting  the  different 
quarters  of  his  camp;  as  the  Squh  the  control  of  all 


14  BRAGERRIDGE  HALL. 

these  matters  to  him,  when  he  is  at  the  Hall.  He  inquired 
into  the  state  of  the  horses,  examined  their  feet;  prescribed  a 
drench  for  one,  and  bleeding  for  another;  and  then  took  me  to 
look  at  his  own  horse,  on  the  merits  of  which  he  dwelt  with 
greai     rolixity,  and  which,  I  noticed,  had  the  best  stall  in  tho 

stable.  .    , 

After  this  I  was  taken  to  a  new  toy  of  his  and  the  Squire  e, 
which  he  termed  the  falconry,  where  there  were  several  un- 
happy birds  in  durance,  completing  their  education.     Among 
the  number  was  a  fine  falcon,  which  Master  Simon  had  in 
especial  training,  and  he  told  me  that  he  would  show  me,  in  a 
few  days,  some  rare  sport  of  the  good  old-fashioned  kind.     In 
the  course  of  our  round,  I  noticed  that  the  grooms,  game-keep- 
er, whippers-in,  and  other  retainers,  seemed  all  to  be  on  some- 
what of  a  familiar  footing  with  Master  Simon,  and  fond  of 
having  a  joke  with  him,  though  it  was  evident  they  had  great 
deference  for  his  opinion  in  matters  relating  to  their  functions. 
There  was  one  exception,  however,  in  a  testy  old  huntsman, 
as  hot  as  a  pepper-corn;  a  meagre,  wiry  old  fellow,  in  a  thread- 
velvet  jockev  cap,  and  a  pair  of  leather  breeches,  that, 
from  much  wear,  shone,  as  though  they  had  been  japanned. 
He  was  very  contradictory  and  pragmatical,  and  apt,  as  I 
thought,  to  differ  from  Master  Simon  now  and  then,  out  of 
mere  captiousness.    This  was  particularly  the  case  with  respect 
to  the  treatment  of  the  hawk,  which  the  old  man  seemed  to 
have  under  his  peculiar  care,  and,  according  to  Master  Simon, 
was  in  a  fair  way  to  ruin:  the  latter  had  a  vast  deal  to  say 
about  casting,  and  imping,  and  gleaming,  and  enscaming,  and 
giving  the  hawk  the  rangle,  which  I  saw  was  all  heathen 
Greek  to  old  Christy;  but  he  maintained  his  point  notwith- 
standing, and  seemed  to  hold  all  this  technical  lore  in  utter 

disrespect.  ^_ 

I  was  surprised  with  the  good-humour  with  which  Master 
Simon  bore  his  contradictions,  till  he  explained  the  matter  to 
me  afterwards.  Old  Christy  is  the  most  ancient  servant  m  the 
place,  having  lived  among  dogs  and  horses  the  greater  part  of 
a  century,  and  been  in  the  service  of  Mr.  Bracebridge's  father. 
He  knows  the  pedigree  of  every  horse  on  the  place,  and  has 
bestrode  the  great-great-grandsires  of  most  of  them.  He  can 
give  a  circumstantial  detail  of  every  fox-hunt  for  the  last  sixty 
or  seventy  yearn,  and  has  a  history  for  every  stag's  head  about 
the  house,  and  every  hunting  trophy  nailed  to  the  door  ot  the 
dog-kennel. 


THE  BUSY   MAN.  15 

All  the  present  race  have  grown  up  under  his  eye,  and  humour 
him  in  his  old  age.  He  once  attended  the  Squire  to  Oxford, 
when  he  was  a  student  there,  and  enlightened  the  whole  univer- 
sity with  his  hunting  lore.  All  this  is  enough  to  make  the  old 
man  opinionated,  since  he  finds,  on  all  these  matters  of  first- 
rate  importance.  lie  knows  more  than  the  rest  of  the  world. 
Indeed,  Master  Simon  had  been  his  pupil,  and  acknowledges 
that  he  derived  his  first  knowledge  in  hunting  from  th 
structions  of  Christy;  and  I  much  question  whether  the  old 
man  does  not  still  look  upon  him  rather  as  a  greenhorn. 

On  our  return  homewards,  as  we  were  crossing  the  lawn  in 
front  of  the  house,  we  heard  the  porter's  bell  ring  at  the  lodge, 
and  shortly  afterwards,  a  kind  of  cavalcade  advanced  slowly 
up  the  avenue.  At  sight  of  it  my  companion  paused,  consid- 
ered it  for  a  moment,  and  then,  making  a  sudden  exclamation, 
hurried  away  to  meet  it.  As  it  approached,  I  discovered  a  fair, 
fresh-looking  elderly  lady,  dressed  in  an  old-fashioned  riding- 
habit,  with  a  broad-brimmed  white  beaver  hat,  such  as  may  be 
seen  in  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds'  paintings.-  She  rode  a  sleek  white 
pony,  and  was  followed  by  a  footman  in  rich  livery,  mounted 
on  an  over-fed  hunter.  At  a  little  distance  in  the  rear  came  an 
ancient  cumbrous  chariot,  drawn  by  two  very  corpulent  horses, 
^  driven  by  as  corpulent  a  coachman,  beside  whom  sat  a  page 
dressed  in  a  fanciful  green  livery.  Inside  of  the  chariot  was  a 
starched  prim  personage,  with  a  look  somewhat  between  a 
lady's  companion  and  a  lady's  maid;  and  two  pampered  curs, 
that  showed  their  ugly  faces,  and  barked  out  of  each  window. 

There  was  a  general  turning  out  of  the  garrison,  to  receive 
this  new  comer.  The  Squire  assisted  her  to  alight,  and  saluted 
her  affectionately ;  the  fair  Julia  flew  into  her  arms,  and  they 
embraced  with  the  romantic  fervour  of  boarding-school  friends : 
she  was  escorted  into  the  house  by  Julia's  lover,  towards  whom 
she  showed  distinguished  favour ;  and  a  line  of  the  old  servants, 
who  had  collected  in  the  Hall,  bowed  most  profoundly  as  she 
passed. 

I  observed  that  Master  Simon  was  most  assiduous  and  devout 
in  his  attentions  upon  this  old  lady.  He  walked  by  the  side  of  her 
pony,  up  the  avenue ;  and,  while  she  was  receiving  the  saluta- 
tions of  the  rest  of  the  family,  he  took  occasion  to  notice  the  fat 
coachman ;  to  pat  the  sleek  carriage  horses,  and,  above  all,  to 
say  a  civil  word  to  my  lady's  gentlewoman,  the  prim,  sour- 
looking  vestal  in  the  chariot. 

I  had  no  more  of  his  company  for  the  rest  of  the  morning. 


16  BRACBBRIDGE  HALL. 

He  was  swept  off  in  the  vortex  that  followed  in  the  wake  of 
this  lady.  Once  indeed  he  paused  for  a  moment,  as  he  was 
hurrying  on  some  errand  of  the  good  lady's,  to  let  me  know 
that  this  was  Lady  Lillycraft,  a  sister  of  the  Squire's,  of  large 
fortune,  which  the  captain  would  inherit,  and  that  her  estate 
lay  in  one  of  the  best  sporting  counties  in  all  England. 


FAMILY  SERVANTS. 

Verily  old  servants  are  the  vouchers  of  worthy  housekeeping.  They  are  like  rats 
in  a  mansion,  or  mit^s  in  a  cheese,  bespeaking  the  antiquity  and  fatness  of  their 
abode. 

In  my  casual  anecdotes  of  the  Hall,  I  may  often  be  tempted 
to  dwell  on  circumstances  of  a  trite  and  ordinary  nature,  from 
their  appearing  to  me  illustrative  of  genuine  national  character. 
It  seems  to  be  the  study  of  the  Squire  to  adhere,  as  much  as 
possible,  to  what  he  considers  the  old  landmarks  of  English 
manners.  His  servants  all  understand  his  ways,  and  for  the 
most  part  have  been  accustomed  to  them  from  infancy;  so 
that,  upon  the  whole,  his  household  presents  one  of  the  few 
tolerable  specimens  that  can  now  be  met  with,  of  the  establish- 
ment of  an  English  country  gentleman  of  the  old  school. 

By  the  by,  the  servants  are  not  the  least  characteristic  part 
of  the  household :  the  housekeeper,  for  instance,  has  been  born 
and  brought  up  at  the  Hall,  and  has  never  been  twenty  miles 
from  it ;  yet  she  has  a  stately  air,  that  would  not  disgrace  a 
lady  that  had  figured  at  the  court  of  Queen  Elizabeth. 

I  am  half  inclined  to  think  that  she  has  caught  it  from  living 
so  much  among  the  old  family  pictures.  It  may,  however,  be 
owing  to  a  consciousness  of  her  importance  in  the  sphere  in 
which  she  has  always  moved ;  for  she  is  greatly  respected  in 
the  neighbouring  village,  and  among  the  farmers'  wives,  and 
has  high  authority  in  the  household,  ruling  over  the  servants 
with  quiet,  but  undisputed  sway. 

She  is  a  thin  old  lady,  with  blue  eyes  and  pointed  nose  and 
chin.  Her  dress  is  always  the  same  as  to  fashion.  She  wears 
a  small,  well-starched  ruff,  a  laced  stomacher,  full  petticoats, 
and  a  gown  festooned  and  open  in  front,  which,  on  particular 
occasions,  is  of  ancient  silk,  the  legacy  of  some  former  dame  of 
the  family,  or  an  inheritance  from  her  mother,  who  was  house- 


FAMILY  SERVANTS.  17 

keeper  before  her.  I  have  a  reverence  for  these  old  garments, 
as  I  make  no  doubt  they  have  figured  about  these  apartments 
in  days  long  past,  when  they  have  set  off  the  charms  of  some 
peerless  family  beauty ;  and  I  have  sometimes  looked  from  the 
old  housekeeper  to  the  neighbouring  portraits,  to  see  whether  I 
could  not  recognize  her  antiquated  brocade  in  the  dress  of 
someone  of  those  long-waisted  dames  that  smile  on  me  from 
the  walls. 

Her  hair,  winch  is  quite  white,  is  frizzed  out  in  front,  and 
she  wears  over  it  a  small  cap,  nicely  plaited,  and  brought  down 
under  the  chin.  Her  maimers  are  simple  and  primitive,  height- 
ened a  little  by  a  proper  dignity  of  station. 

The  Hall  is  her  world,  and  the  history  of  the  family  the  only 
history  she  knows,  excepting  that  which  she  has  read  in  the 
Bible.  She  can  give  a  biography  of  every  portrait  in  the  pic- 
ture gallery,  and  is  a  complete  family  chronicle. 

She  is  treated  with  great  consideration  by  the  Squire.  In- 
deed, Master  Simon  tells  me  that  there  is  a  traditional  anecdote 
current  among  the  servants,  of  the  Squire's  having  been  seen 
kissing  her  in  the  picture  gallery,  when  they  were  both  young. 
As.  however,  nothing  further  was  ever  noticed  between  them, 
the  circumstance  caused  no  great  scandal;  only  she  was  ob- 
served to  take  to  reading  Pamela  shortly  afterwards,  and 
refused  the  hand  of  the  village  inn-keeper,  whom  she  had  pre- 
viously smiled  on. 

The  old  butler,  who  was  formerly  footman,  and  a  rejected 

admirer  of  hers,  used  to  tell  the  anecdote  now  and  then,  at  those 

,  little  cabals  that  will  occasionally  take  place  among  the  most 

[  orderly  servants,  arising  from  the  common  propensity  of  the 

governed  to  talk  against  administration ;  but  he  has  left  it  off, 

of  late  years,  since  he  has  risen  into  place,  and  shakes  his  head 

'rebukingly  when  it  is  mentioned. 

It  is  certain  that  the  old  lady  will,  to  this  day,  dwell  on  the 
'looks  of  the  Squire  when  he  was  a  young  man  at  college ;  and 
she  maintains  that  none  of  his  sons  can  compare  with  their 
father  when  he  was  of  their  age,  and  was  dressed  out  in  his 
full  suit  of  scarlet,  with  his  hair  craped  and  powdered,  and  his 
three-cornered  hat. 

She  has  an  orphan  niece,  a  pretty,  soft-hearted  baggage, 
named  Phoebe  Wilkins,  who  has  been  transplanted  to  the  Hall 
within  a  year  or  two,  and  been  nearly-  spoiled  for  any  conditi<  >n 
of  life.  She  is  a  kind  of  attendant  and  companion  of  the  fair 
Julia's;  and  from  loitering  about  the  young  lady's  apartments, 


J  8  BRACEBR1D0E  HALL. 

reading  scraps  of  novels,  and  inheriting  second-hand  finery, 
has  become  something  between  a  waiting-maid  and  a  slipshod 
fine  lady. 

She  is  considered  a  kind  of  heiress  among  the  servants,  as 
she  will  inherit  all  her  aunt's  property-;  which,  if  report  be  true, 
must  be  a  round  sum  of  good  golden  guineas,  the  accumulated 
wealth  of  two  housekeepers'  savings ;  not  to  mention  the  heredi- 
tary  wardrobe,  and  the  many  little  valuables  and  knick-knacks, 
treasured  up  in  the  housekeepers'  room.  Indeed,  the  old 
housekeeper  has  the  reputation,  among  the  servants  and  the 
villagers,  of  being  passing  rich;  and  there  is  a  japanned  chest 
of  drawers,  and  a  large  iron-bound  coffer  in  her  room,  which 
are  supposed,  by  the  house-maids,  to  hold  treasures  of  wealth. 

The  old  lady  is  a  great  friend  of  Master  Simon,  who,  indeed, 
pays  a  little  court  to  her,  as  to  a  person  high  in  authority ;  and 
they  have  many  discussions  on  points  of  family  history,  in 
winch,  notwithstanding  his  extensive  information,  and  pride  erf 
knowledge,  he  commonly  admits  her  superior  accuracy.  He 
seldom  returns  to  the  Hall,  after  one  of  his  visits  to  the  other 
branches  of  the  family,  without  bringing  Mrs.  Wilkins  some 
remembrance  from  the  ladies  of  the  house  where  he  has  been 
staying. 

Indeed,  all  the  children  of  the  house  look  up  to  the  old  lad^ 
with  habitual  respect  and  attachment,  and  she  seems  almost  t( 
consider  them  as  her  ownj  from  their  having  grown  up  undei 
her  eye.  The  Oxonian,  however,  is  her  favourite,  probably  from 
being  the  youngest,  though  he  is  the  most  mischievous,  and  has 
been  apt  to  play  tricks  upon  her  from  boyhood. 

I  cannot  help  mentioning  one  little  ceremony,  which,  I  be- 
lieve, is  peculiar  to  the  Hall.  After  the  cloth  is  removed  at 
dinner,  the  old  housekeeper  sails  into  the  room  and  stands  be- 
hind the  Squire's  chair,  when  he  fills  her  a  glass  of  wine  with 
his  own  hands,  in  which  she  drinks  the  health  of  the  company 
in  a  truly  respectful  yet  dignified  manner,  and  then  retires. 
The  Squire  received  the  custom  from  his  father,  and  has  always 
continued  it. 

There  is  a  peculiar  character  about  the  servants  of  old  Eng- 
lish families  that  reside  principally  in  the  country.  They  have 
a  quiet,  orderly,  respectful  mode  of  doing  their  duties.  They 
are  always  neat  in  their  persons,  and  appropriately,  and  if  I 
may  use  the  phrase,  technically  dressed ;  they  move  about  the 
house  without  hurry  or  noise ;  there  is  nothing  of  the  bustle  of 
employment,  or  the  voice  of  command ;  nothing  of  that  obtrusive 


FAMILY  8ERVANT8.  19 

housewifery  that  amounts  to  a  torment.  You  are  not  persecu- 
ted by  the  process  of  making  you  comfortable ;  yet  every  thing 
is  done,  and  is  done  well.  The  work  of  the  house  is  performed 
as  if  by  magic,  but  it  is  the  magic  of  system.  Nothing  is  done 
by  fits  and  starts,  nor  at  awkward  seasons ;  the  whole  goes  on 
like  well-oiled  clock-work,  where  there  is  no  noise  nor  jarring 
in  its  operations. 

English  servants,  in  general,  are  not  treated  with  great  in- 
dulgence, nor  rewarded  by  many  commendations;  for  the 
English  are  laconic  and  reserved  toward  their  domestics ;  but 
an  approving  nod  and  a  kind  word  from  master  or  mistress, 
goes  as  far  here,  as  an  excess  of  praise  or  indulgence  elsewhere. 
Neither  do  servants  often  exhibit  any  animated  marks  of  affec- 
tion to  their  employers ;  yet,  though  quiet,  they  are  strong  in 
their  attachments:  and  the  reciprocal  regard  of  masters  and 
servants,  though  not  ardently  expressed,  is  powerful  and  last- 
ing in  old  English  families. 

The  title  of  "an  old  family  servant"  carries  with  it  a  thousand 
kind  associations,  in  all  parts  of  the  world;  and  there  is  no 
claim  upon  the  home-bred  charities  of  the  heart  more  irresisti- 
ble than  that  of  having  been  "born  in  the  house."  It  is  com- 
mon to  see  gray-headed  domestics  of  this  kind  attached  to  an 
English  family  of  the  "  old  school,''  who  continue  in  it  to  the 
clay  of  their  death,  in  the  enjoyment  of  steady,  unaffected 
kindness,  and  the  performance  of  faithful,  unofficious  duty.  I 
think  such  instances  of  attachment  speak  well  for  both  master 
and  servant,  and  the  frequency  of  them  speaks  well  for  national 
character. 

These  observations,  however,  hold  good  only  with  families  of 
the  description  I  have  mentioned ;  and  with  such  as  are  some- 
what retired,  and  pass  the  greater  part  of  their  time  in  the 
country.  As  to  the  powdered  menials  that  throng  the  halls 
of  fashionable  town  residences,  they  equally  reflect  the  charac- 
ter of  the  establishments  to  which  they  belong;  and  I  know  no 
more  complete  epitomes  of  dissolute  heartlessness  and  pam- 
pered inutility. 

But,  the  good  "old  family  servant  I"— the  one  who  has  always 
been  linked,  in  idea,  with  the  home  of  our  heart ;  who  has  led 
us  to  school  in  the  days  of  prattling  childhood ;  who  has  been 
the  confidant  of  our  boyish  cares,  and  schemes,  and  enterprises; 
who  has  hailed  us  as  we  came  home  at  vacations,  and  been  the 
promoter  of  all  our  holiday  sports;  who,  when  we,  in  wander- 
ing manhood,  have  left  the  paternal  roof,  and  only  return 


20 


BRA  CEB1UD  G  E  11 A  LL. 


thither  at  intervals— will  welcome  us  with  a  joy  inferior  only  to 
that  of  our  parents ;  who,  now  grown  gray  and  infirm  with  age, 
still  totters  about  the  house  of  our  fathers,  in  fond  and  faithful 
servitude ;  who  claims  us,  in  a  manner,  as  his  own ;  and  hastens 
with  querulous  eagerness  to  anticipate  his  fellow-domestics  in 
waiting  upon  us  at  table;  and  who,  when  we  retire  at  night  to 
the  chamber  that  still  goes  by  our  name,  will  linger  about  the 
room  to  have  one  more  kind  look,  and  one  more  pleasant  word 
about  times  that  are  past— who  does  not  experience  towards 
such  a  being  a  feeling  of  almost  filial  affection  \ 

I  have  met  with  several  instances  of  epitaphs  on  the  grave- 
stones of  such  valuable  domestics,  recorded  with  the  sim- 
ple truth  of  natural  feeling.  I  have  two  before  me  at  this 
moment;  one  copied  from  a  tombstone  of  a  church-yard  in 
Warwickshire : 

"Here  lieth  the  body  of  Joseph  Batte,  confidential  servant  to 
George  Birch,  Esq.,  of  Hamstead  Hall.  His  grateful  friend 
and  master  caused  this  inscription  to  be  written  in  memory  of 
his  discretion,  fidelity,  diligence,  and  continence.  He  died  (a 
bachelor)  aged  84,  having  lived  44  years  in  the  same  family." 

The  other  was  taken  from  a  tombstone  in  Eltham  church- 
yard : 

"Here  he  the  remains  of  Mr.  James  Tappy,  who  departed 
this  life  on  the  8th  of  September,  1818,  aged  84,  after  a  faithful 
service  of  60  years  in  one  family ;  by  each  individual  of  which 
he  lived  respected,  and  died  lamented  by  the  sole  survivor." 

Few  monuments,  even  of  the  illustrious,  have  given  me  the 
glow  about  the  heart  that  I  felt  while  copying  this  honest  epi- 
taph in  the  church-yard  of  Eltham.  I  sympathized  with  this 
"sole  survivor"  of  a  family  mourning  over  the  grave  of  the 
faithful  follower  of  his  race,  who  had  been,  no  doubt,  a  living 
memento  of  times  and  friends  that  had  passed  away ;  and  in 
considering  this  record  of  long  and  devoted  service,  I  called  to 
mind  the  touching  speech  of  Old  Adam,  in  "As  You  Like  It," 
when  tottering  after  the  youthful  son  of  his  ancient  master: 

"  Master,  go  on,  and  I  will  follow  thee 
To  the  last  gasp,  with  love  and  loyalty!" 

Note.— I  cannot  but  mention  a  tablet  which  I  have  seen  somewhere  in  the  chapel 
of  Windsor  Castle,  put  up  by  the  late  king  to  the  memory  of  a  family  servant,  who 
had  been  a  faithful  attendant  of  his  lamented  daughter,  the  Princess  Amelia. 
George  III.  possessed  much  of  the  strong  domestic  feeling  of  the  old  English  coun- 
try gentleman;  and  it  is  an  incident  curious  in  monumental  history,  and  creditable 
to  the  human  heart,  a  monarch  erecting  a  monument  in  honour  of  the  humble  virtues 
of  a  menial. 


THE    WIDOW.  21 


THE  WIDOW. 

She  was  so  charitable  and  pitious 

She  would  weep  if  that  she  saw  a  nious 

Caught  in  a  trap,  if  it  were  dead  or  bled: 

Of  small  hounds  had  she,  that  she  fed 

With  rost  flesh,  milke.  and  wastel  bread, 

But  sore  wept  she  if  any  of  them  were  dead, 

Or  if  man  smote  them  with  a  yard  smart.— Chaucer. 

Notwithstanding  the  whimsical  parade  made  by  Lady  Lilly- 
craft  on  her  arrival,  she  has  none  of  the  petty  stateliness  that  I 
had  imagined ;  but,  on  the  contrary,  she  has  a  degree  of  nature 
and  simple-heartedness,  if  I  may  use  tha  phrase,  that  mingles 
well  with  her  old-fashioned  manners  and  harmless  ostentation. 
She  dresses  in  rich  silks,  with  long  waist ;  she  rouges  consider- 
ably, and  her  hair,  which  is  nearly  white,  is  frizzed  out,  and 
put  up  with  pins.  Her  face  is  pitted  with  the  small-pox,  but 
the  delicacy  of  her  features  shows  that  she  may  once  have  been 
beautiful ;  and  she  has  a  very  fair  and  well-shaped  hand  and 
arm,  of  which,  if  I  mistake  not,  the  good  lady  is  still  a  little 
vain. 

I  have  had  the  curiosity  to  gather  a  few  particulars  concern- 
ing her.  She  was  a  great  belle  in  town,  between  thirty  and 
forty  years  since,  and  reigned  for  two  seasons  with  all  the  inso- 
lence of  beauty,  refusing  several  excellent  offers;  when,  un- 
fortunately, she  was  robbed  of  her  charms  and  her  lovers  by 
an  attack  of  the  small-pox.  She  retired  immediately  into  the 
country,  where  she  some  time  after  inherited  an  estate,  and 
married  a  baronet,  a  former  admirer,  whose  passion  had  sud- 
denly revived ;  ' ' having, "  as  he  said ,  "always  1  •  > ved  her  mind 
rather  than  her  person." 

The  baronet  did  not  enjoy  her  mind  and  fortune  above  six 
months,  and  had  scarcely  grown  very  tired  of  her,  when  he 
broke  his  neck  in  a  fox-chase,  and  left  her  free,  rich,  and  dis- 
consolate. She  has  remained  on  her  estate  in  the  country  ever 
since,  and  has  never  shown  any  desire  to  return  to  town,  and 
revisit  the  scene  of  her  early  triumphs  and  fatal  malady.  All 
her  favourite  recollections,  however,  revert  to  that  short  period 
of  her  youthful  beauty.  She  has  no  idea  of  town  but  as  it  was 
at  that  time;  and  continually  forgets  that  the  place  and  people 
must  have  changed  materially  in  the  course  of  nearly  half  a 
century.     She  will  often  speak  of  the  toasts  of  those  days  as  if 


22  BRACEBBIDGB  HALL. 

still  reigning;  and,  until  very  recently,  used  to  talk  with  delight 
of  the  royal  family,  and  the  beauty  of  the  young  princes  and 
princesses.  She  cannot  be  brought  to  think  of  the  present  king 
otherwise  than  as  an  elegant  young  man,  rather  wild,  but  who 
danced  a  minuet  divinely ;  and  before  he  came  to  the  crown, 
would  often  mention  him  as  the  " sweet  young  prince." 

She  talks  also  of  the  walks  in  Kensington  Garden,  where  the 
gentlemen  appeared  in  gold-laced  coats,  and  cocked  hats,  and 
the  ladies  in  hoops,  and  swept  so  proudly  along  the  grassy 
avenues;  and  she  thinks  the  ladies  let  themselves  sadly  down 
in  their  dignity,  when  they  gave  up  cushioned  head-dresses, 
and  high-heeled  shoes.  She  has  much  to  say  too  of  the  officers 
who  were  in  the  train  of  her  admirers ;  and  speaks  familiarly 
of  many  wild  young  blades,  that  are  now,  perhaps,  hobbling 
about  watering-places  with  crutches  and  gouty  shoes. 

Whether  the  taste  the  good  lady  had  of  matrimony  discour- 
aged her  or  not,  I  cannot  say ;  but  though  her  merits  and  her 
riches  have  attracted  many  suitors,  she  has  never  been  tempted 
to  venture  again  into  the  happy  state.  This  is  singular,  too, 
for  she  seems  of  a  most  soft  and  susceptible  heart;  is  always 
talking  of  love  and  connubial  felicity,  and  is  a  great  stickler  for 
old-fashioned  gallantry,  devoted  attentions,  and  eternal  con- 
stancy, on  the  part  of  the  gentlemen.  She  lives,  hoAvever,  after 
her  own  taste.  Her  house,'  I  am  told,  must  have  been  built  and 
furnished  about  the  time  of  Sir  Charles  Grandison:  every  thing 
about  it  is  somewhat  formal  and  stately ;  but  has  been  softened 
down  into  a  degree  of  voluptuousness,  characteristic  of  an  olf 
lady,  very  tender-hearted  and  romantic,  and  that  loves  bei 
ease.'  The  cushions  of  the  great  arm-chairs,  and  wide  sofas, 
almost  bury  you  when  you  sit  down  on  them.  Flowers  of  the 
most  rare  and  delicate  kind  are  placed  about  the  rooms,  and  on 
little  japanned  stands;  and  sweet  bags  lie  about  the  tables  and 
mantel-pieces.  The  house  is  full  of  pet  dogs,  Angora  cats,  and 
singing  birds,  who  are  as  carefully  waited  upon  as  she  is  her- 
self. 

She  is  dainty  in  her  living,  and  a  little  of  an  epicure,  living  on 
,  white  meats,  and  little  lady-like  dishes,  though  her  servants 
have  substantial  old  English  fare,  as  their  looks  bear  witness. 
Indeed,  they  are  so  indulged,  that  they  are  all  spoiled ;  and 
when  they  lose  their  present  place,  they  will  be  fit  for  no  other. 
Her  ladyship  is  one  of  those  easy-tempered  beings  that  are 
always  doomed  to  be  much  liked,  but  ill  served  by  their  domes- 
tics, and  cheated  by  all  the  world. 


THE   WIDOW.  23 

Much  of  her  time  is  passed  in  reading  novels,  of  which  she 
has  a  most  extensive  library,  and  has  a  constant  supply  from 
the  publishers  in  town.  Her  erudition  in  this  line  of  literature 
is  immense ;  she  has  kept  pace  with  the  press  for  half  a  century. 
Her  mind  is  stuffed  with  love-tales  of  all  kinds,  from  the  stately 
amours  of  the  old  books  of  chivalry,  down  to  the  last  blue- 
covered  romance,  reeking  from  the  press;  though  she  evidently 
gives  the  preference  to  those  that  came  out  in  the  days  of  her 
youth,  and  when  she  was  first  in  love.  She  maintains  that 
there  are  no  novels  written  now-a-days  equal  to  Pamela  and  Sir 
Charles  Grandison ;  and  she  places  the  Castle  of  Otranto  at  the 
head  of  all  romances. 

She  does  a  vast  deal  of  good  in  her  neighbourhood,  and  is 
imposed  upon  by  every  beggar  in  the  county.  She  is  the  bene- 
factress of  a  village  adjoining  to  her  estate,  and  takes  an  especial 
interest  in  all  its  love-affairs.  She  knows  of  every  courtship 
that;  is  going  on;  every  lovelorn  damsel  is  sure  to  find  a  patient 
listener  and  a  sage  adviser  in  her  ladyship.  She  takes  great 
pains  to*  reconcile  all  love-quarrels,  and  should  any  faithless 
swain  persist  in  his  inconstancy,  he  is  sure  to  draw  on  himself 
the  good  lady's  violent  indignation. 

I  have  learned  these  particulars  partly  from  Frank  Brace- 
bridge,  and  partly  from  Master  Simon.  I  am  now  able  to 
account  for  the  assiduous  attention  of  the  latter  to  her  lady- 
ship. Her  house  is  one  of  his  favourite  resorts,  where  he  is  a 
very  important  personage.  He  makes  her  a  visit  of  business 
once  a  year,  when  he  looks  into  all  her  affairs;  which,  as  she  is 
no  manager,  are  apt  to  get  into  confusion.  He  examines  the 
books  of  the  overseer,  and  shoots  about  the  estate,  which,  he 
says,  is  well  stocked  with  game,  notwithstanding  that  it  is 
poached  by  all  the  vagabonds  in  the  neighbourhood. 

It  is  thought,  as  I  before  hinted,  that  the  captain  will  inherit 
the  greater  part  of  her  property,  having  always  been  her  chief 
favourite;  for,  in  fact,  she  is  partial  to  a  red  coat.  She  lias  now 
come  to  the  Hall  to  be  present  at  his  nuptials,  having  a  % 
disposition  to  interest  herself  in  all  matters  of  love  and  inatri- 
mony. 


24  BRACEBRIVGE  HALL 


THE  LOVERS. 

Rise  up,  my  love,  my  fair  one.  and  come  away :  for,  Io,  the  winter  is  past,  the  raim 
is  over  and  gone;  the  flowers  appear  on  the  earth;  the  time  of  the  singing  of  birds 
is  come,  and  the  voice  of  the  turtle  is  heard  in  the  land.— Song  of  Solomon. 

To  a  man  who  is  a  little  of  a  philosopher,  and  a  bachelor  to 
boot:  and  who,  by  dint  of  some  experience  in  the  follies  of  life, 
begins  to  look  with  a  learned  eye  upon  the  ways  of  man,  and 
eke  of  woman ;  to  such  a  man,  I  say,  there  is  something  very 
entertaining  in  noticing  the  conduct  of  a  pair  of  young  lovers. 
It  may  not  be  as  grave  and  scientific  a  study  as  the  loves  of  the 
plants,  but  it  is  certainly  as  interesting. 

I  have,  therefore,  derived  much  pleasure,  since  my  arrival  at 
the  Hall,  from  observing  the  fair  Julia  and  her  lover.  She  has 
all  the  delightful,  blushing  consciousness  of  an  artless  girl,  inex- 
perienced in  coquetry,  who  has  made  her  first  conquest;  while 
the  captain  regards  her  with  that  mixture  of  fondness  and  exul- 
tation with  which  a  youthful  lover  is  apt  to  contemplate  so 
beauteous  a  prize. 

I  observed  them  yesterday  in  the  garden,  advancing  along 
one  of  the  retired  walks.  The  sun  was  shining  with  delicious 
warmth,  making  great  masses  of  bright  verdure,  and  deep  blue 
shade.  The  cuckoo,  that  "harbinger  of  spring,"  was  faintly 
heard  from  a  distance ;  the  thrush  piped  from  the  hawthorn ; 
and  the  yellow  butterflies  sported,  and  toyed,  and  coquetted  in 
the  air. 

The  fair  Julia  was  leaning  on  her  lover's  arm,  listening  to  his 
conversation,  with  her  eyes  cast  down,  a  soft  blush  on  her 
cheek,  and  a  quiet  smile  on  her  lips,  while  in  the  hand  that 
hung  negligently  by  her  side  was  a  bunch  of  flowers.  In  this 
way  they  were  sauntering  slowly  along ;  and  when  I  considered 
them  and  the  scene  in  which  they  were  moving,  I  could  not  but 
think  it  a  thousand  pities  that  the  season  should  ever  change, 
or  that  young  people  should  ever  grow  older,  or  that  blossoms 
should  give  way  to  fruit,  or  that  lovers  should  ever  get  mar- 
ried. 

From  what  I  have  gathered  of  family  anecdote,  I  understand 
that  the  fair  Julia  is  the  daughter  of  a  favourite  college  friend 
of  the  Squire;  who,  after  leaving  Oxford,  had  entered  the  army, 
and  served  for  many  years  in  India,  where  he  was  mortally 
wounded  in  a  skirmish  with  the  natives.     In  his  last  momenta 


Tilt:   LOVERS.  25 

he  had,  with  a  faltering  pen,  recommended  his  wife  and  daugh- 
ter to  the  kindness  of  his  early  friend. 

The  widow  and  her  child  returned  to  England  helpless  and 
almost  hopeless.  When  Mr.  Bracebridge  received  accounts  of 
their  situation,  he  hastened  to  their  relief.  He  reached  them 
just  in  time  to  soothe  the  last  moments  of  the  mother,  who  was 
dying  of  a  consumption,  and  to  make  her  happy  in  the  assur- 
ance that  her  child  should  never  want  a  protector. 

The  good  Squire  returned  with  his  prattling  charge  to  his 
strong-hold,  where  he  had  brought  her  up  with  a  tenderness 
truly  paternal.  As  he  has  taken  some  pains  to  superintend  her 
education,  and  form  her  taste,  she  has  grown  up  with  many  of 
his  notions,  and  considers  him  the  Avisest,  as  well  as  the  best  of 
men.  Much  of  her  time,  too,  has  been  passed  with  Lady  Lilly- 
craft,  who  has  instructed  her  in  the  manners  of  the  old  school, 
and  enriched  her  mind  with  all  kinds  of  novels  and  romances. 
Indeed,  her  ladyship  has  had  a  great  hand  in  promoting  the 
match  between  Julia  and  the  captain,  having  had  them  together 
at  her  country-seat,  the  moment  she  found  there  was  an  attach- 
ment growing  up  between  them ;  the  good  lady  being  never  so 
happy  as  when  she  has  a  pair  of  turtles  cooing  about  her. 

I  have  been  pleased  to  see  the  fondness  with  which  the  fair 
Julia  is  regarded  by  the  old  servants  at  the  Hall.  She  has  been 
a  pet  with  them  from  childhood,  and  every  one  seems  to  lay 
some  claim  to  her  education ;  so  that  it  is  no  wonder  that  she 
should  be  extremely  accomplished.  The  gardener  taught  her 
to  rear  floAvers,  of  which  she  is  extremely  fond.  Old  Christy, 
the  pragmatical  huntsman,  softens  when  she  approaches;  and 
as  she  sits  lightly  and  gracefully  in  her  saddle,  claims  the  merit 
of  having'  taught  her  to  ride ;  while  the  housekeeper,  who  almost 
looks  upon  her  as  a  daughter,  intimates  that  she  first  gave  her 
an  insight  into  the  mysteries  of  the  toilet,  having  been  dressing- 
maid,  in  her  young  days,  to  the  late  Mrs.  Bracebridge.  I  am 
inclined  to  credit  this  last  claim,  as  I  have  noticed  that  the  dress 
of  the  young  lady  had  an  air  of  the  old  school,  though  managed 
with  native  taste,  and  that  her  hair  was  put  up  very  much  in 
the  style  of  Sir  Peter  Lely's  portraits  in  the  picture  gallery. 

Her  very  musical  attainments  partake  of  this  old-fashioned 
character,  and  most  of  her  songs  are  such  as  are  not  at  the 
present  day  to  be  found  on  the  piano  of  a  modern  performer. 
I  have,  however,  seen  so  much  of  modern  fashions,  modern 
accomplishments,  and  modern  fine  ladies,  that  I  relish  this  tinge 
of  antiquated  style  in  so  young  and  lovely  a  girl;  and  I  have 


26  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

had  as  much  pleasure  in  hearing  her  warble  one  of  the  old  songs 
of  Herriek.  or  Carew,  or  Suckling,  adapted  to  some  simple  old 
melody,  as  I  have  had  from  listening  to  a  lady  amateur  sky- 
lark it  up  and  down  through  the  finest  bravura  of  Rossini  or 
.Mozart. 

We  have  very  pretty  music  in  the  evenings,  occasionally, 
between  her  and  the  captain,  assisted  sometimes  by  Master 
Simon,  who  scrapes,  dubiously,  on  his  violin;  being  very  apt  to 
get  out,  and  to  halt  a  note  or  two  in  the  rear.  Sometimes  he 
even  thrums  a  little  on  the  piano,  and  takes  a  part  in  a  trio,  in 
which  his  voice  can  generally  be  distinguished  by  a  certain 
quavering  tone,  and  an  occasional  false  note. 

I  was  praising  the  fair  Julia's  performance  to  him,  after  one 
of  her  songs,  when  I  found  he  took  to  himself  the  whole  credit 
of  having  formed  her  musical  taste,  assuring  me  that  she  was 
very  apt ;  and,  indeed,  summing  up  her  whole  character  in  his 
knowing  way,  by  adding,  that  "  she  was  a  very  nice  girl,  anc 
had  no  nonsense  about  her." 


FAMILY  RELIQUES. 

My  Infelice's  face,  her  brow,  her  eye, 
The  dimple  on  her  cheek:  and  such  sweet  skill 
Hath  from  the  cunning  workman's  pencil  flown, 
These  lips  look  fresh  and  livelj-  as  her  own. 
,  False  colours  last  after  the  true  be  dead. 
Of  all  the  roses  grafted  on  her  cheeks, 
Of  all  the  graces  dancing  in  her  eyes, 
Of  all  the  music  set  upon  her  tongue, 
Of  all  that  was  past  woman's  excellence 
In  her  white  bosom:  look,  a  painted  board 
Circumscribes  all!— Dekker. 

An  old  English  family  mansion  is  a  fertile  subject  for  study 
It  abounds  with  illustrations  of  former  times,  and  traces  of  the 
tastes,  and  humours,  and  manners  of  successive  generations. 
The  alterations  and  additions,  in  different  styles  of  architecture; 
the  furniture,  plate,  pictures,  hangings ;  the  warlike  and  sport- 
ing implements  of  different  ages  and  fancies ;  all  furnish  food 
for  curious  and  amusing  speculation.  As  the  Squire  is  very 
careful  in  collecting  and  preserving  all  family  reliques,  the  Hall 
is  full  of  remembrances  of  the  kind.  In  looking  about  the  estab- 
lishment, I  can  picture  to  myself  the  characters  and  habits  that 


FA  MIL  Y  RELIQ  UES.  27 

have  prevailed  at  different  eras  of  the  family  historj  I  have 
mentioned,  on  a  former  occasion,  the  armour  of  the  crusader 
which  hangs  up  in  the  Hall.  There  are  also  several  jnck-boots, 
with  enormously  thick  soles  and  high  heels,  that  belonged  to  a  set 
of  cavaliers,  who  filled  the  Hall  with  the  din  and  stir  of  arms 
during  the  time  of  the  Covenanters.  A  number  of  enormous 
drinking  vessels  of  antique  fashion,  with  huge  Venice  glasses, 
and  green-hock-glasses,  with  the  apostles  in  relief  on  them, 
remain  as  monuments  of  a  generation  or  two  of  hard  livers, 
that  led  a  life  of  roaring  revelry,  and  first  introduced  the  gout 
into  the  family. 

I  shall  pass  over  several  more  such  indications  of  temporary 
tastes  of  the  Squire's  predecessors ;  but  I  cannot  forbear  to 
notice  a  pair  of  antlers  in  the  great  hall,  winch  is  one  of  the 
trophies  of  a  hard-riding  squire  of  former  times,  who  was  the 
Nimrod  of  these  parts.  There  are  many  traditions  of  his  won- 
derful feats  in  hunting  still  existing,  which  are  related  by  old 
Christy,  the  huntsman,  who  gets  exceedingly  nettled  if  they 
are  in  the  least  doubted.  Indeed,  there  is  a  frightful  chasm, 
a  few  miles  from  the  Hall,  which  goes  by  the  name  of  the 
Squire's  Leap,  from  his  having  cleared  it  in  the  ardour  of  the 
chase ;  there  can  be  no  doubt  of  the  fact,  for  old  Christy  shows 
the  very  dints  of  the  horse's  hoofs  on  the  rocks  on  each  side  of 
the  chasm. 

Master  Simon  holds  the  memory  of  this  squire  in  great  venera- 
tion, and  has  a  number  of  extraordinary  stories  to  tell  concern- 
ing him,  which  he  repeats  at  all  hunting  dinners;  and  I  am 
told  that  they  wax  more  and  more  marvellous  the  older  they 
grow.  He  has  also  a  pair  of  Eippon  spurs  which  belonged  to 
this  mighty  hunter  of  yore,  and  which  he  only  wears  on  par- 
ticular occasions. 

The  place,  hoAvever,  which  abounds  most  with  mementos  of 
past  times,  is  the  picture  gallery:  and  there  is  something 
strangely  pleasing,  though  melancholy,  in  considering  the  long 
rows  of  portraits  which  compose  the  greater  part  of  the  collec- 
tion. They  f  umish  a  kind  of  narrative  of  the  lives  of  the  family 
worthies,  which  I  am  enabled  to  read  with  the  assistance  of  the 
venerable  housekeeper,  who  is  the  family  chronicler,  prompted 
occasionally  by  Master  Simon.  There  is  the  progress  of  a  fine 
lady,  for  instance,  through  a  variety  of  portraits.  One  repre- 
sents her  as  a  little  girl,  with  a  long  waist  and  hoop,  holding  a 
kitten  hi  her  arms  and  ogling  the  spectator  out  of  the  corners 
of  her  eyes,  as  if  she  could  not  turn  her  head,     In  another,  we 


28  BRACEBRWQE  HALL. 

find  her  in  the  freshness  of  youthful  beauty,  when  she  was  a 
celebrated  belle,  and  so  hard-hearted  as  to  cause  several  unfor 
tunate  gentlemen  to  run  desperate  and  write  bad  poetry.  In 
another,  she  is  depicted  as  a  stately  dame,  in  the  maturity  of 
her  charms;  next  to  the  portrait  of  her  husband,  a  gallant 
colonel  in  full-bottomed  wig  and  gold-laced  hat,  who  was  killed 
abroad ;  and,  finally,  her  monument  is  in  the  church,  the  spire 
of  which  may  be  seen  from  the  window,  where  her  effigy  is 
carved  in  marble,  and  represents  her  as  a  venerable  dame  of 
seventy -six. 

In  like  manner,  I  have  followed  some  of  the  family  great  men 
through  a  series  of  pictures,  from  early  boyhood  to  the  robe  of 
dignity,  or  truncheon  of  command;  and  so  on  by  degrees, 
until  they  were  garnered  up  in  the  common  repository,  the 
neighbouring  church. 

There  is  one  group  that  particularly  interested  me.     It  con- 
sisted of  four  sisters,  of  nearly  the  same  age,  who  flourished 
about  a  century  since,  and,  if  I  may  judge  from  their  portraits, 
were  extremely  beautiful.     I  can  imagine  what  a  scene  of 
gayety  and  romance  this  old  mansion  must  have  been,  whei 
they  were  in  the  heyday  of  their  charms;  when  they  passec 
like  beautiful  visions  through  its  halls,  or  stepped  daintily  tc 
music  in  the  revels  and  dances  of  the  cedar  gallery ;  or  printed, 
with  delicate  feet,  the  velvet  verdure  of  these  lawns.     Hot 
must  they  have  been  looked  up  to  with  mingled  love,  an( 
pride,  and  reverence  by  the  old  family  servants ;  and  follow* 
with  almost  painful  admiration  by  the  aching  eyes  of  riv* 
admirers !    How  must  melody,  and  song,  and  tender  serenade, 
have  breathed  about  these  courts,  and  their  echoes  whisper* 
to  the  loitering  tread  of  lovers !    How  must  these  very  turret 
have  made  the  hearts  of  the  young  galliards  thrill,  as  they  firs 
discerned  them  from  afar,  rising  from  among  the  trees,  an( 
pictured  to  themselves  the  beauties  casketed  like  gems  withii 
these  walls !    Indeed,  I  have  discovered  about  the  place  seven 
faint  records  of  this  reign  of  love  and  romance,  when  the  He 
was  a  kind  of  Court  of  Beauty. 

Several  of  the  old  romances  in  the  library  have  marginal 
notes  expressing  sympathy  and  approbation,  where  there  are 
long  speeches  extolling  ladies'  charms,  or  protesting  eternal 
fidelity,  or  bewailing  the  cruelty  of  some  tyrannical  fair  one.- 
The  interviews,  and  declarations,  and  parting  scenes  of  tender 
lovers,  also  bear  the  marks  of  having  been  frequently  read, 
and  are  scored  and  marked  with  notes  of  admiration,  and  have 


FAMILY  HELIQUES. 


29 


initials  written  on  the  margins;  most  of  which  annotations 
have  the  day  of  the  month  and  year  annexed  to  them.  Several 
of  the  windows,  too,  have  scraps  of  poetry  engraved  on  them 
with  diamonds,  taken  from  the  writings  of  the  fair  Mrs. 
Philips,  the  once  celebrated  Orinda.  Some  of  these  seem  to 
have  been  inscribed  by  lovers ;  and  others,  in  a  delicate  and 
unsteady  hand,  and  a  little  inaccurate  in  the  spelling,  have 
evidently  been  written  by  the  young  ladies  themselves,  or  by 
female  friends,  who  have  been  on  visits  to  the  Hall.  Mrs. 
Philips  seems  to  have  been  their  favourite  author,  and  they  have 
distributed  the  names  of  her  heroes  and  heroines  among  their 
circle  of  intimacy.  Sometimes,  in  a  male  hand,  the  verse 
bewails  the  cruelty  of  beauty,  and  the  sufferings  of  constant 
love;  while  in  a  female  hand  it  prudishly  confines  itself  to 
lamenting  the  parting  of  female  friends.  The  bow-window  of 
my  bed-room,  which  has,  doubtless,  been  inhabited  by  one  of 
these  beauties,  has  several  of  these  inscriptions.  I  have  one  at 
this  moment  before  my  eyes,  called  "  Camilla  parting  with 
Leonora:" 

"  How  perish'd  is  the  joy  that's  past, 
The  present  how  unsteady ! 
What  comfort  can  be  great  and  last, 
When  this  is  gone  already. " 

And  close  by  it  is  another,  written,  perhaps,  by  some  adven 
turous  lover,  who  had  stolen  into  the  lady's  chamber  during 
ler  absence : 

"  THEODOSII'S  TO  CAMILLA. 

I'd  rather  in  your  favour  live, 

Thau  in  a  lasting  name; 
And  much  a  greater  rate  would  give 

For  happiness  than  fame. 

THEODOSICS.      1700." 


When  I  look  at  these  faint  records  of  gallantry  and  tender. 

less;  when  I  contemplate  the  fading  portraits  of  these  beauti 

girls,  and  think,  too,  that  they  have  long  since  bloomed, 

signed,  grown  old,  died,  and  passed  away,  and  with  them  all 

Leir  graces,  their  triumphs,  their  rivalries,  their  admirers ;  the 

rhole  empire  of  love  and  pleasure  in  which  they  ruled— "all 

lead,  all  buried,  all  forgotten.''  I  find  a  cloud  of  melancholy 

stealing  over  the  present  gayeties  around  me.     I  was  gazing, 

a  musing  mood,  this  very  morning,  at  the  portrait  of  the 

ly  whose  husband  was  killed  abroad,  when  the  fair  Julia 

itered  the  gallery,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  the  captain.     The 


80  BRACEBPJDGE  BALL. 

sun  shone  through  the  row  of  windows  on  her  as  she  passed 
along,  and  she  seemed  to  beam  out  eaeh  time  into  brightness, 
and  relapse  into  shade,  until  the  door  at  the  bottom  of  the 
gallery  closed  after  her.  I  felt  a  sadness  of  heart  at  the  idea, 
that  this  was  an  emblem  of  her  lot :  a  few  more  years  of  sun- 
shine and  shade,  and  all  this  life  and  loveliness,  and  enjoyment, 
will  have  ceased,  and  nothing  be  left  to  commemorate  this 
beautiful  being  but  one  more  perishable  portrait ;  to  awaken, 
perhaps,  the  trite  speculations  of  some  future  loiterer,  like 
myself,  when  I  and  my  scribblings  shall  have  lived  through 
our  brief  existence,  and  been  forgotten. 


AN  OLD  SOLDIER. 

I've  worn  some  leather  out  abroad;  let  out  a  heathen  soul  or  two;  fed  this  good 
sword  with  the  black  blood  of  pagan  Christians;  couverted  a  few  infidels  with  it.— 
But  let  that  pass.— The  Ordinary. 

The  Hall  was  thrown  into  some  little  agitation,  a  few  days 
since,  by  the  arrival  of  General  Harbottle.  He  had  been 
expected  for  several  days,  and  had  been  looked  for,  rather 
impatiently,  by  several  of  the  family.  Master  Simon  assured 
me  that  I  would  like  the  general  hugely,  for  he  was  a  blade  of 
the  old  school,  and  an  excellent  table  companion.  Lady  Lilly- 
craft,  also,  appeared  to  be  somewhat  fluttered,  on  the  morning 
of  the  general's  arrival,  for  he  had  been  one  of  her  early  admi- 
rers ;  and  she  recollected  him  only  as  a  dashing  young  ensign, 
just  come  upon  the  town.  She  actually  spent  an  hour  longer 
at  her  toilette,  and  made  her  appearance  with  her  hair  uncom- 
monly frizzed  and  powdered,  and  an  additional  quantity  of 
rouge.  She  was  evidently  a  little  surprised  and  shocked,  there- 
fore, at  finding  the  lithe,  dashing  ensign  transformed  into  a 
corpulent  old  general,  with  a  double  chin;  though  it  Avas  a 
perfect  picture  to  witness  their  salutations;  the  graciousness 
of  her  profound  curtsy,  and  the  air  of  the  old  school  with  which 
the  general  took  off  his  hat,  swayed  it  gently  in  his  hand,  and 
bowed  his  powdered  head. 

All  this  bustle  and  anticipation  has  caused  me  to  study  the 
general  with  a  little  more  attention  than,  perhaps,  I  should 
otherwise  have  done ;  and  the  few  days  that  he  has  alreadv 


AN  OLD  SOLDIER  31 

passed  at  the  Hall  have  enabled  me,  I  think,  to  furnish  a  toler- 
able likeness  of  him  to  the  reader. 

He  is,  as  Master  Simon  observed,  a  soldier  of  the  old  school, 
with  powdered  head,  side  locks,  and  pigtail.  His  face  is  shaped 
like  the  stern  of  a  Dutch  man-of-war,  narrow  at  top  and  wide 
at  bottom,  with  full  rosy  cheeks  and  a  double  chin ;  so  that,  to 
ust-  the  cant  of  the  day,  his  organs  of  eating  may  be  said  to  be 
powerfully  developed. 

The  general,  though  a  veteran,  has  seen  very  little  active 
service,  except  the  taking  of  Seringapatam,  which  forms  an 
era  in  his  history.  He  wears  a  large  emerald  in  his  bosom, 
and  a  diamond  on  his  finger,  which  he  got  on  that  occasion, 
and  whoever  is  unlucky  enough  to  notice  either,  is  sure  to 
involve  himself  in  the  whole  history  of  the  siege.  To  judge 
from  the  general's  conversation,  the  taking  of  Seringapatam  is 
the  most  important  affair  that  has  occurred  for  the  last 
century. 

On  the  approach  of  warlike  times  on  the  continent,  he  was 
rapidly  promoted  to  get  him  out  of  the  way  of  younger  officers 
of  merit ;  until,  having  been  hoisted  to  the  rank  of  general,  he 
was  quietly  laid  on  the  shelf.  Since  that  time,  his  campaigns 
have  been  principally  confined  to  watering-places;  where  he 
drinks  the  waters  for  a  slight  touch  of  the  liver  which  he  got 
in  India ;  and  plays  whist  with  old  dowagers,  with  whom  he 
has  flirted  in  his  younger  days.  Indeed,  he  talks  of  all  the  fine 
women  of  the  last  half  century,  and,  according  to  hints  which 
he  now  and  then  drops,  has  enjoyed  the  particular  smiles  of 
many  of  them. 

He  has  seen  considerable  garrison  duty,  and  can  speak  of 

Imost  every  place  famous  for  good  quarters,  and  where  the 
inhabitants  give  good  dinners.  He  is  a  diner  out  of  first-rate 
currency,  when  in  town;  being  invited  to  one  place,  because 
he  has  been  seen  at  another.  In  the  same  way  he  is  invited 
about  the  country-seats,  and  can  describe  half  the  seats  in  the 
kingdom,  from  actual  observation ;  nor  is  any  one  better  versed 
in  court  gossip,  and  the  pedigrees  and  intermarriages  of  the 
nobility. 

As  the  general  is  an  old  bachelor,  and  an  old  beau,  and  there 
are  several  ladies  at  the  Hall,  especially  his  quondam  flame 
Lady  Joeelyne,  he  is  put  rather  upon  his  gallantry.  He  com 
monly  passes  some  time,  therefore,  at  Iris  toilette,  and  takes 
the  field  at  a  late  hour  every  morning,  with  his  hair  dressed 
out  and  powdered,  and  a  rose  in  his  button-hole.     After  he  has 


32  BllAdJilliDUE  HALL. 

breakfasted,  he  walks  up  and  down  the  terrace  in  the  sunshine, 
humming  an  air,  and  hemming  between  every  stave,  carrying 
one  hand  behind  his  back,  and  with  the  other  touching  his  cane 
to  the  ground,  and  then  raising  it  up  to  his  shoulder.  Should 
he,  in  these  morning  promenades,  meet  any  of  the  elder  ladies 
of  the  family,  as  he  frequently  does  Lady  Lillycraft,  his  hat  is 
immediately  in  his  hand,  and  it  is  enough  to  remind  one  of 
those  courtly  groups  of  ladies  and  gentlemen,  in  old  prints  of 
Windsor  terrace4,  or  Kensington  garden. 

He  talks  frequently  about  "the  service,"  and  is  fond  of  hum- 
ming the  old  song, 

Why,  soldiers,  why, 
Should  we  be  melancholy,  I  <• 

Why,  soldiers,  why, 

Whose  business  't  is  to  diel 

I  cannot  discover,  however,  that  the  general  has  ever  run  any 
great  risk  of  dying,  excepting  from  an  apoplexy  or  an  indiges- 
tion. He  criticises  all  the  battles  on  the  continent,  and  discusses 
the  merits  of  the  commanders,  but  never  fails  to  bring  the 
conversation,  ultimately,  to  Tippoo  Saib  and  Seringapatam.  I 
am  told  that  the  general  was  a  perfect  champion  at  drawing- 
rooms,  parades,  and  watering-places,  during  the  late  war,  and 
was  looked  to  with  hope  and  confidence  by  many  an  old  lady, 
when  labouring  under  the  terror  of  Buonaparte's  invasion. 

He  is  thoroughly  loyal,  and  attends  punctually  on  levees 
when  in  town.  He  has  treasured  up  many  remarkable  sayings 
of  the  late  king,  particularly  one  which  the  king  made  to  him 
on  a  field-day,  complimenting  him  on  the  excellence  of  his 
horse.  He  extols  the  whole  royal  family,  but  especially  the 
present  king,  whom  he  pronounces  the  most  perfect  gentleman 
and  best  whist-player  in  Europe.  The  general  swears  rather 
more  than  is  the  fashion  of  the  present  day ;  but  it  was  the 
mode  in  the  old  school.  He  is,  however,  very  strict  in  religious 
matters,  and  a  staunch  churchman.  He  repeats  the  responses 
very  loudly  in  church,  and  is  emphatical  in  praying  for  the 
king  and  royal  family. 

At  table,  his  loyalty  waxes  very  fervent  with  his  second 
bottle,  and  the  song  of  ' '  God  save  the  King"  puts  him  into  a 
perfect  ecstasy.  He  is  amazingly  well  contented  with  the 
present  state  of  things,  and  apt  to  get  a  little  impatient  at  any 
talk  about  national  ruin  and  agricultural  distress.  He  says  he 
has  travelled  about  the  country  as  much  as  any  man,  and  has 
met  with  nothing  but  prosperity ;  and  to  confess  the  truth,  a 


THE   WIDOW'S   RETINUE,  33 

great  part  of  his  time  is  spent  in  visiting  from  one  country-seat 
to  another,  and  riding  about  the  parks  of  his  friends.  "They 
talk  of  public  distress,'7  said  the  general  this  day  to  me,  at 
dinner,  as  he  smacked  a  glass  of  rich  burgundy,  and  cast  his 
eyes  about  the  ample  board ;  ' '  they  talk  of  public  distress,  but 
where  do  we  find  it,  sir?  I  see  none.  I  see  no  reason  why  any 
one  has  to  complain.  Take  my  word  for  it,  sir,  this  talk  about 
public  distress  is  all  humbug !" 


THE  WIDOW'S  RETINUE. 

Little  dogs  and  all !— Lear. 

Ix  giving  an  account  of  the  arrival  of  Lady  Lillycraft  at  the 
Hall,  I  ought  to  have  mentioned  the  entertainment  which  I 
derived  from  witnessing  the  unpacking  of  her  carriage,  and  the 
disposing  of  her  retinue.  There  is  something  extremely  amus- 
ing to  me  in  the  number  of  factitious  wants,  the  loads  of 
imaginary  conveniences,  but  real  encumbrances,  with  which 
the  luxurious  are  apt  to  burthen  themselves.  I  like  to  watch 
the  whimsical  stir  and  display  about  one  of  these  petty  pro- 
gresses. The  number  of  robustious  footmen  and  retainers  of 
all  kinds  bustling  about,  with  looks  of  infinite  gravity  and  im- 
portance, to  do  almost  nothing.  The  number  of  heavy  trunks, 
and  parcels,  and  bandboxes  belonging  to  my  lady;  and  the 
solicitude  exhibited  about  some  humble,  odd-looking  box,  by 
my  lady's  maid;  the  cushions  piled  in  the  carriage  to  make  a 
soft  seat  still  softer,  and  to  prevent  the  dreaded  possibility  of  a 
jolt;  the  smelling-bottles,  the  cordials,  the  baskets  of  biscuit 
and  fruit ;  the  new  publications ;  all  provided  to  guard  against 
hunger,  fatigue,  or  ennui ;  the  led  horses,  to  vary  the  mode  of 
travelling ;  and  all  this  preparation  and  parade  to  move,  per- 
haps, some  very  good-for-nothing  personage  about  a  little  space 
of  earth ! 

I  do  not  mean  to  apply  the  latter  part  of  these  observations 
to  Lady  Lillycraft,  for  whose  simple  kind-heartedness  I  have  a 
very  great  respect,  and  who  is  really  a  most  amiable  and  worthy 
being.  I  cannot  refrain,  however,  from  mentioning  some  of 
the  motley  retinue  she  has  brought  with  her ;  and  which,  in- 
deed, bespeak  the  overflowing  kindness  of  her  nature,  which 
requires  her  to  be  surrounded  with  objects  on  which  to  lavish  it. 


34  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

In  the  first  place,  her  ladyship  has  a  pampered  coachman, 
with  a  red  face,  and  cheeks  that  hang  down  like  dew-laps.  He 
evidently  domineers  over  her  a  little  with  respect  to  the  fat 
horses ;  and  only  drives  out  when  he  thinks  proper,  and  when 
he  thinks  it  will  be  ' '  good  for  the  cattle. " 

She  has  a  favourite  page,  to  attend  upon  her  person;  a  hand- 
some boy  of  about  twelve  years  of  age,  but  a  mischievous  var~ 
let,  very  much  spoiled,  and  in  a  fair  way  to  be  good  for  nothing. 
He  is  dressed  in  green,  with  a  profusion  of  gold  cord  and  gilt 
buttons  about  his  clothes.  She  always  has  one  or  two  attend- 
ants of  the  kind,  who  are  replaced  by  others  as  soon  as  they 
grow  to  fourteen  years  of  age.  She  lias  brought  two  dogs  with 
her,  also,  out  of  a  number  of  pets  which  she  maintains  at  home. 
One  is  a  fat  spaniel,  called  Zephyr— though  heaven  defend  me 
from  such  a  zephyr!  He  is  fed  out  of  all  shape  and  comfort; 
his  eyes  are  nearly  strained  out  of  his  head ;  he  wheezes  with 
corpulency,  and  cannot  walk  without  great  drfficulty.  The 
other  is  a  little,  old,  gray-muzzled  curmudgeon,  with  an  un- 
happy eye,  that  kindles  like  a  coal  if  you  ©nly  look  at  him ;  his 
nose  turns  up ;  his  mouth  is  drawn  into  wrinkles,  so  as  to  show 
his  teeth ;  in  short,  he  has  altogether  the  look  of  a  dog  far  gone 
in  misanthropy,  and  totally  sick  of  the  world.  When  he 
walks,  he  has  his  tail  curled  up  so  tight  that  it  seems  to  lift  his 
feet  from  the  ground ;  and  he  seldom  makes  use  of  more  than 
three  legs  at  a  time,  keeping  the  other  drawn  up  as  a  reserve. 
This  last  wretch  is  called  Beauty. 

These  dogs  are  full  of  elegant  ailments,  unknown  to  vulgar 
dogs ;  and  are  petted  and  nursed  by  Lady  Lillycraft  with  the 
tenderest  kindness.  They  are  pampered  and  fed  with  delica- 
cies by  their  fellow-minion,  the  page ;  but  their  stomachs  are 
often  weak  and  out  of  order,  so  that  they  cannot  eat;  though  I 
have  now  and  then  seen  the  page  give  them  a  mischievous 
pinch,  or  thwack  over  the  head,  when  his  mistress  was  not  by. 
They  have  cushions  for  their  express  use,  on  which  they  lie 
before  the  fire,  and  yet  are  apt  to  shiver  and  moan  if  there  is 
the  least  draught  of  air.  When  any  one  enters  the  room,  they 
make  a  most  tyrannical  barking  that  is  absolutely  deafening. 
They  are  insolent  to  all  the  other  dogs  of  the  establishment. 
There  is  a  noble  stag-hound,  a  great  favourite  of  the  Squire's, 
who  is  a  privileged  visitor  to  the  parlour;  but  the  moment  he 
makes  his  appearance,  these  intruders  fly  at  him  with  furious 
rage ;  and  I  have  admired  the  sovereign  indifference  and  con- 
tempt with  which  he  seems  to  look  down  upon  his  puny  assail- 


THE    WIDOWS  KKTINUE.  35 

ants.  When  her  ladyship  drives  out,  these  dogs  are  generally 
carried  with  her  to  take  the  air ;  when  they  look  out  of  each 
window  of  the  carriage,  and  bark  at  all  vulgar  pedestrian  dogs. 
These  dogs  are  a  continual  source  of  misery  to  the  household : 
as  they  are  always  in  the  way,  they  every  now  and  then  get 
their  toes  trod  on,  and  then  there  is  a  yelping  on  their  part,  and 
a  loud  lamentation  on  the  part  of  their  mistress,  that  fills  the 
room  with  clamour  and  confusion. 

Lastly,  there  is  her  ladyship's  waiting-gentlewoman,  Mrs. 
Hannah,  a  prim,  pragmatical  old  maid;  one  of  the  most 
intolerable  and  intolerant  virgins  that  ever  lived.  She  has 
kept  her  virtue  by  her  until  it  has  turned  sour,  and  now  every 
word  and  look  smacks  of  verjuice.  She  is  the  very  opposite  to 
her  mistress,  for  one  hates,  and  the  other  loves,  all  mankind. 
How  they  first  came  together  I  cannot  imagine ;  but  they  have 
lived  together  for  many  years ;  and  the  abigail's  temper  being 
tart  and  encroaching,  and  her  ladyship's  easy  and  yielding,  the 
former  has  got  the  complete  upper  hand,  and  tyrannizes  over- 
time good  lady  in  secret. 

Lady  Lillycraft  now  and  then  complains  of  it,  in  great  con- 
fidence, to  her  friends,  but  hushes  up  the  subject  immediately, 
if  Mrs.  Hannah  makes  her  appearance.  Indeed,  she  has  been 
so  accustomed  to  be  attended  by  her,  that  she  thinks  she  could 
•not  do  without  her ;  though  one  great  study  of  her  life,  is  to 
keep  Mrs.  Hannah  in  good-humour,  by  little  presents  and  kind- 
nesses. 

Master  Simon  has  a  most  devout  abhorrence,  mingled  with 
awe,  for  this  ancient  spinster.  He  told  me  the  other  day,  in  a 
whisper,  that  she  was  a  cursed  brimstone — in  fact,  he  added 
another  epithet,  which  I  would  not  repeat  for  the  world.  I 
have  remarked,  however,  that  he  is  always  extremely  civil  to 
her  when  they  meet. 


30  BRACEBR1DGE  HALL. 


READY-MONEY  JACK. 

My  purse,  it  is  my  privy  wyfe, 

This  song  I  dare  both  syng  and  say, 

Itkeepeth  men  from  grievous  stryfe 

When  every  man  for  liimself  shall  pay. 

As  I  ryde  in  ryche  array 

For  gold  and  silver  men  wyll  me  floryshe; 

But  thys  matter  I  dare  well  say, 

Every  gramercy  myne  own  purse.— Boot  of  Hunting. 

On  the  skirts  of  the  neighbouring  village,  there  lives  a  kind  of 
small  potentate,  who,  for  aught  I  know,  is  a  representative  of 
one  of  the  most  ancient  legitimate  lines  of  the  present  day;  for 
the  empire  over  which  he  reigns  has  belonged  to  his  family 
time  out  of  mind.  His  territories  comprise  a  considerable 
number  of  good  fat  acres;  and  his  seat  of  power  is  in  an  old 
farm-house,  where  he  enjoys,  unmolested,  the  stout  oaken 
chair  of  his  ancestors.  The  personage  to  whom  I  allude  is  a 
sturdy  old  yeoman  of  the  name  of  John  Tibbets,  or  rather, 
Ready-Money  Jack  Tibbets,  as  he  is  called  throughout  the 
neighbourhood. 

The  first  place  where  he  attracted  my  attention  was  in  the 
church-yard  on  Sunday ;  where  he  sat  on  a  tombstone  after  the 
service,  with  Ms  hat  a  little  on  one  side,  holding  forth  to  a 
small  circle  of  auditors;  and,  as  I  presumed,  expounding  the 
law  and  the  prophets;  until,  on  drawing  a  little  nearer,  I  found 
he  was  only  expatiating  on  the  merits  of  a  brown  horse.  He 
presented  so  faithful  a  picture  of  a  substantial  English  yeoman, 
such  as  he  is  often  described  in  books,  heightened,  indeed,  by 
some  little  finery,  peculiar  to  himself,  that  I  could  not  but  take 
note  of  his  whole  appearance. 

He  was  between  fifty  and  sixty,  of  a  strong,  muscular  frame, 
and  at  least  six  feet  high,  with  a  physiognomy  as  grave  as  a 
lion's,  and   set  off  with  short,  curling,  iron-gray  locks.     His 
shirt-collar  was  turned  down,  and  displayed  a  neck  covered 
with  the  same  short,  curling,  gray  hair ;  and  he  wore  a  coloured 
silk  neckcloth,  tied  very  loosely,  and  tucked  in  at  the  bosom,  - 
with  a  green  paste  brooch  on  the  knot.     His  coat  was  of  dark 
green  cloth,  with  silver  buttons,  on  each  of  which  was  engraved, 
a  stag,  with  his  own  name,  John  Tibbets,  underneath.     He  had; 
an  inner  waistcoat  of  figured  chintz,  between  which  and  his 
coat  was  another  of  scarlet  cloth,  unbuttoned.     His  breeches. 


in-:  A  i>  Y-  UONE  Y  J  A  OR.  37 

also  left  unbuttoned  at  the  knees,  not  from  any  sloven- 
liness, but  to  show  a  broad  pair  of  scarlet  garters.  His  stock- 
jugs  were  blue,  with  white  clocks;  he  wore  large  silver  shoe- 
buckles;  a  broad  paste  buckle  in  his  hatband ;  his  sleeve-buttons 
were  gold  seven-shilling  pieces ;  and  he  had  two  or  three  guineas 
hanging  as  ornaments  to  his  watch-chain. 

On  making  some  inquiries  about  him,  I  gathered  that  he  was 
descended  from  a  line  of  farmers,  that  had  always  lived  on  the 
same  spot,  and  owned  the  same  property ;  and  that  half  of  the 
church -yard  was  taken  up  with  the  tombstones  of  his  race.  He 
has  all  Ins  life  been  an  important  character  in  the  place.  When 
a  youngster,  he  was  one  of  the  most  roaring  blades  of  the 
neighbourhood.  No  one  could  match  him  at  wrestling,  pitching 
the  bar,  cudgel  play,  and  other  athletic  exercises.  Like  the 
renowned  Pinner  of  Wakefield,  he  was  the  village  champion ; 
carried  off  the  prize  at  all  the  fairs,  and  threw  his  gauntlet  at 
the  country  round.  Even  to  this  day,  the  old  people  talk  of  his 
prowess,  and  undervalue,  hi  comparison,  all  heroes  of  the  green 
that  have  succeeded  him ;  nay,  they  say,  that  if  Eeady-Money 
Jack  were  to  take  the  field  even  now,  there  is  no  one  could 
stand  before  him. 

When  Jacks  father  died,  the  neighbours  shook  their  heads, 
and  predicted  that  young  hopeful  would  soon  make  way  with 
the  old  homestead ;  but  Jack  falsified  all  their  predictions.  The 
fcoment  he  succeeded  to  the  paternal  farm,  he  assumed  a  new 
laracter;  took  a  wife;  attended  resolutely  to  his  affairs,  and 
3ame  an  industrious,  thrifty  farmer.  With  the  family  pro- 
Tty.  he  inherited  a  set  of  old  family  maxims,  to  which  he 
?adily  adhered.  He  saw  to  everything  himself:  put  his  own 
land  to  the  plough;  worked  hard;  ate  heartily;  slept  soundly: 
ud  for  everything  in  cash  down;  and  never  danced,  except 
le  could  do  it  to  the  music  of  his  own  money  in  both  pockets. 
[e  has  never  been  without  a  hundred  or  two  pounds  in  gold  by 
,  and  never  allows  a  debt  to  stand  unpaid.  This  has  gained 
his  current  name,  of  which,  by  the  by,  he  is  a  little  proud: 
id  has  caused  him  to  be  looked  upon  as  a  very  wealthy  man 
>y  all  the  village. 
Notwithstanding  his  thrift,  however,  he  has  never  denied 
iself  the  amusements  of  life,  but  has  taken  a  share  in  every 
ring  pleasure.  It  is  his  maxim  that  "he  that  works  hard 
tn  afford  to  play."  lie  is.  therefore,  an  attendant  at  all  the 
iimtry  fairs  and  wakes,  and  has  >ii;-iialized  himself  by  feats  of 
brength  and  prowess  on  every  village  green  in  the  shire.     H< 


33  BRAGEBRIDOE  HALL. 

often  nipkes  his  appearance  at  horse-races,  and  sports  his  half- 
gui  r  >,  and  even  his  guinea  at  a  time;  keeps  a  good  horse  for 
his  own  riding,  and  to  this  day  is  fond  of  following  the  hounds, 
and  is  generally  in  at  the  death.  He  keeps  up  the  rustic 
revels,  and  hospitalities  too,  for  which  his  paternal  farm-house 
has  always  been  noted ;  has  plenty  of  good  cheer  and  dancing 
at  harvest-home,  and,  above  all,  keeps  the  "merry  night,"*  as 
it  is  termed,  at  Christmas. 

With  all  his  love  of  amusement,  however,  Jack  is  by  no 
means  a  boisterous,  jovial  companion.  He  is  seldom  known  to 
laugh  even  in  the  midst  of  his  gayety;  but  maintains  the 
same  grave,  lion-like  demeanour.  He  is  very  slow  at  compre- 
hending a  joke ;  and  is  apt  to  sit  puzzling  at  it  with  a  perplexed 
look,  while  the  rest  of  the  company  is  in  a  roar.  This  gravity 
has,  perhaps,  grown  on  him  with  the  growing  weight  of  his 
Character;  for  he  is  gradually  rising  into  patriarchal  dignity 
in  his  native  place.  Tnough  he  no  longer  takes  an  active  part 
in  athletic  sports,  yet  he  always  presides  at  them,  and  is  ap- 
pealed to  on  all  occasions  as  umpire.  He  maintains  the  peace 
on  the  village  green  at  holiday  games,  and  quells  all  brawls 
and  quarrels  by  collaring  the  parties  and  shaking  them  heartily, 
if  refractor  v.  No  one  ever  pretends  to  raise  a  hand  against 
him,  or  to  contend  against  his  decisions;  the  young  men 
having  grown  up  in  habitual  awe  of  his  prowess,  and  in  impli- 
cit deference  to  him  as  the  champion  and  lord  of  the  green. 

He  is  a  regular  frequenter  of  the  village  inn,  the  landlady 
having  been  a  sweetheart  of  his  in  early  life,  and  he  having 
always  continued  on  kind  terms  with  her.  He  seldom,  how- 
ever, drinks  any  thing  but  a  draught  of  ale ;  smokes  his  pipe, 
and  pays  his  reckoning  before  leaving  the  tap-room.  Here  he 
"  gives  his  little  senate  laws;"  decides  bets,  which  are  very  gen- 
3 rally  referred  to  him;  determines  upon  the  characters  and 
qualities  of  horses;  and,  indeed,  plays  now  and  then  the  part 

>f  a  judge  in  settling  petty  disputes  between  neighbours,  which 
.wise  might  have  been  nursed  by  country  attorneys  into 
tolerable  law-suits.  Jack  is  very  candid  and  impartial  in  his 
decisions,  but  he  has  not  a  head  to  carry  a  long  argument, 
and  is  very  apt  to  get  perplexed  and  out  of  patience  if  there  is 
much  pleading.     He  generally  breaks  through  the  argument 

*  Merry  Night— a  rustic  merry-making  in  a  farm-house  about  Christmas,  com 
mon  in  some  parts  of  Yorkshire.  There  is  abundance  of  homely  fare,  tea,  cakes, 
fruit,  and  ale:  various  feats  of  agility,  amusing  games,  romping,  dancing,  ard  kiss- 
ing v.ithal.    They  commonly  break  up  at  midnight. 


READY-MOXEY  JACK.  39 

with  a  strong  voice,  and  brings  matters  to  a  summary  conclu- 
sion, by  pronouncing  what  he  calls  the  "  upshot  of  the  busi- 
ness," or,  hi  other  words,  "the  long  and  the  short  of  the 
matter." 

Jack  once  made  a  journey  to  London,  a  great  many  years 
since,  which  has  furnished  him  wdth  topics  of  conversation 
ever  since.  He  saw  the  old  king  on  the  terrace  at  Windsor, 
who  stopped,  and  pointed  him  out  to  one  of  the  princesses, 
being  probably  struck  with  Jack's  truly  yeoman-like  appear- 
ance. This  is  a  favourite  anecdote  with  him,  and  has  no  doubt 
had  a  great  effect  in  making  him  a  most  loj-al  subject  ever 
since,  in  spite  of  taxes  and  poors'  rates.  He  was  also  at  Bar- 
tholomew fair,  where  he  had  half  the  buttons  cut  off  his  coat ; 
and  a  gang  of  pick-pockets,  attracted  by  his  external  show  of 
gold  and  silver,  made  a  regular  attempt  to  hustle  him  as  he  was 
gazing  at  a  show;  but  for  once  they  foimd  that  they  had 
caught  a  tartar ;  for  Jack  enacted  as  great  wonders  among  the 
gang  as  Samson  did  among  the  Philistines.  One  of  his  neigh- 
bours, who  had  accompanied  him  to  town,  and  was  with  him  at 
the  fan-,  brought  back  an  account  of  his  exploits,  wrhich  raised 
the  pride  of  the  whole  village ;  who  considered  their  champion 
as  having  subdued  all  London,  and  eclipsed  the  achievements 
of  Friar  Tuck,  or  even  the  renowned  Robin  Hood  himself. 

Of  late  years,  the  old  fellow  has  begun  to  take  the  world 
easily ;  he  works  less,  and  indulges  in  greater  leisure,  his  son 
having  grown  up,  and  succeeded  to  him  both  in  the  labours  of 
the  farm,  and  the  exploits  of  the  green.  Like  all  sons  of  dis- 
tinguished men.  however,  his  father's  renown  is  a  disadvantage 
to  him.  for  he  can  never  come  up  to  public  expectation. 
Though  a  fine  active  fellow  of  three-and-twenty.  and  quite  the 
"cock  of  the  walk."  yet  the  old  people  declare  he  is  nothing 
like  wiiat  Ready-Money  Jack  was  at  his  time  of  life.  The 
youngster  himself  acknowledges  his  inferiority,  and  has  a  won- 
derful opinion  of  the  old  man,  who  indeed  taught  him  all  his 
athletic  acconiphshments.  and  holds  such  a  sway  over  him, 
thai  I  am  told,  even  to  this  day.  he  would  have  no  hesitation 
to  take  him  in  hands,  if  he  rebelled  against  paternal  govern- 
ment. 

The  Squire  holds  Jack  in  very  high  esteem,  and  shows  him 
to  all  his  visitors,  as  a  specimen  of  old  English  "  heart  of  oak." 
He  frequently  calls  at  his  house,  and  tastes  some  of  his  home- 
brewed, which  is  excellent.  He  made  Jack  a  present  of  <>ld 
Tusser's  "Hundred  Points  of  good  Husbandrie,"  which  has 


40  BUACEBRIBGE  I1ALL. 

furnished  him  with  reading  ever  since,  and  is  his  text-book 
and  manual  in  all  agricultural  and  domestic  concerns.  He  has 
made  dog's  ears-at  the  most  favourite  passages,  and  knows 
many  of  the  poetical  maxims  by  heart. 

Tibbets,  though  not  a  man  to  be  daunted  or  flattered  by  high 
acquaintances ;  and  though  he  cherishes  a  sturdy  independence 
oi  mind  and  manner,  yet  is  evidently  gratified  by  the  atten 
tions  of  the  Squire,  whom  he  has  known  irom  boyhood,  and 
pronounces  ' '  a  truegentleman  every  inch  of  him. "  He  is  also  on 
excellent  terms  with  Master  Simon,  who  is  a  kind  of  privy 
counsellor  to  the  family ;  but  his  great  favourite  is  the  Oxonian, 
whom  he  taught  to  wrestle  and  play  at  quarter-staff  when  a 
boy,  and  considers  the  most  promising  young  gentleman  in 
ftie  whole  country. 


BACHELORS. 


The  Bachelor  most  joyfully 

In  pleasant  plight  doth  pass  his  daies, 

Goodfellowshipand  companie 

He  doth  maintain  and  keep  alwaies.— Even's  Old  Ballads. 

There  is  no  character  in  the  comedy  of  human  life  that  is 
more  difficult  to  play  well,  than  that  of  an  old  Bachelor.  When 
a  single  gentleman,  therefore,  arrives  at  that  critical  period 
when  he  begins  to  consider  it  an  impertinent  question  to  be 
asked  his  age,  I  would  advise  him  to  look  well  to  his  ways. 
This  period,  it  is  true,  is  much  later  with  some  men  than  with 
others ;  I  have  witnessed  more  than  once  the  meeting  of  two 
wrinkled  old  lads  of  this  kind,  who  had  not  seen  each  other  for 
several  years,  and  have  been  amused  by  the  amicable  exchange 
of  compliments  on  each  other's  appearance,  that  takes  place  on 
such  occasions.  There  is  always  one  invariable  observation: 
"  Why,  bless  my  soul!  you  look  younger  than  when  I  last  saw 
you !"  Whenever  a  man's  friends  begin  to  compliment  him 
about  looking  young,  he  may  be  sure  that  they  think  he  is 
growing  old. 

I  am  led  to  make  these  remarks  by  the  conduct  of  Master 
Simon  and  the  general,  who  have  become  great  cronies.  As 
the  former  is  the  younger  by  many  years,  he  is  regarded  as 
quite  a  youthful  blade  by  the  general,  who  moreover  looks 


BAQHELORS.  41 

upon  him  as  a  man  of  great  wit  and  prodigious  acquirements. 
I  have  already  hinted  that  Master  Simon  is  a  family  beau,  and 
considered  lather  a  young  fellow  by  all  the  elderly  ladies  of  the 
connexion ;  for  an  old  bachelor,  in  an  old  family  connexion,  is 
something  like  an  actor  in  a  regular  dramatic  corps,  who  seems 
to  ' '  nourish  in  immortal  youth, "  and  will  continue  to  play  the 
Romeos  and  Rangers  for  half  a  century  together. 

Master  Simon,  too,  is  a  little  of  the  chameleon,  and  takes  a 
different  hue  with  every  different  companion :  he  is  very  atten- 
tive and  officious,  and  somewhat  sentimental,  with  Lady  Lilly- 
craft  ;  copies  out  little  namby-pamby  ditties  and  love- songs  for 
her,  and  draws  quivers,  and  doves,  and  darts,  and  Cupids,  to 
be  worked  on  the  corners  of  her  pocket-handkerchiefs.  He 
indulges,  however,  in  very  considerable  latitude  with  the  other 
married  ladies  of  the  family ;  and  has  many  sly  pleasantries  to 
whisper  to  them,  that  provoke  an  equivocal  laugh  and  a  tap  of 
the  fan.  But  when  he  gets  among  young  company,  such  as 
Frank  Bracebridge,  the  Oxonian,  and  the  general,  he  is  apt  to 
put  on  the  mad  wag,  and  to  talk  in  a  very  bachelor-like  strain 
about  the  sex. 

In  this  he  has  been  encouraged  by  the  example  of  the  general, 
whom  he  looks  up  to  as  a  man  who  has  seen  the  world.  The 
general,  in  fact,  tells  shocking  stories  after  dinner,  when  the 
ladies  have  retired,  which  he  gives  as  some  of  the  choice  things 
that  are  served  up  at  the  Mulligatawney  club ;  a  knot  of  boon 
companions  in  London.  He  also  repeats  the  fat  jokes  of  old 
Major  Pendergast,  the  wit  of  the  club,  and  which,  though  the 
general  can  hardly  repeat  them  for  laughing;  always  make 
Mr.  Bracebridge  look  grave,  he  having  a  great  antipathy  to  an 
indecent  jest.  In  a  word,  the  general  is  a  complete  instance  of 
the  declension  in  gay  life,  by  which  a  young  man  of  pleasure  is 
apt  to  cool  down  into  an  obscene  old  gentleman. 

T  saw  him  and  Master  Simon,  an  evening  or  two  since,  con- 
voking with  a  buxom  milkmaid  in  a  meadow ;  and  from  their 
elbowing  each  other  now  and  then,  and  the  general's  shaking 
his  shoulders,  blowing  up  his  checks,  and  breaking  out  into  a 
short  fit  of  irrepressible  laughter,  I  had  no  doubt  they  were 
playing  the  mischief  with  the  girl. 

As  I  looked  at  them  through  a  hedge,  I  could  not  but  think 
they  would  have  made  a  tolerable  group  for  a  modern  pictur 
of  Susannah  and  the  two  elders.     It  is  true,  the  girl  seemed  in 
nowise  alarmed  at  the  force  of  the  enemy ;  and  I  question,  had 
either  of  them  been  alone,  whetlu  r  she  would  not  have  been 


49  BRAOEBBIDGE  HALL. 

more  than  they  would  have  d  to  encounter.     Such  vete* 

ran  roysters  are  daring  wag  together,  and  will  put  any 

female  to  the  blush  with  their  jokes;  but  they  are  as  quiet  as 
lambs  when  they  fall  singly  into  the  clutches  of  a  fine  Avoman. 

In  spite  of  the  general  s  years,  he  evidently  is  a  little  vain  of 
his  person,  and  ambition-  of  conquests.  I  have  observed  him 
on  Sunday  in  church,  eyeing  the  country  girls  most  suspiciously ; 
and  have  seen  him  leer  upon  them  with  a  downright  amorous 
look,  even  When  he  has  been  gallanting  Lady  Lillycraft,  with 
great  ceremony,  through  the  church-yard.  The  general,  in 
fact,  is  a  veteran  in  the  Bervice  of  Cupid,  rather  than  of  Mars, 
having  signalized  himself  in  all  the  garrison  towns  and  country 
quarters,  and  seen  service  in  every  ball-room  of  England.  Not 
a  celebrated  beauty  but  he  has  laid  siege  to ;  and  if  his  word 
may  be  taken  in  a  matter  wherein  no  man  is  apt  to  be  over- 
veracious,  i1  is  incredible  the  success  he  has  had  with  the  fair. 
At  present  he  is  like  a  worn-otit  warrior,  retired  from  service ; 
but  who  still  cocks  his  beaver  with  a  military  air,  and  talks 
stoutly  of  fighting  whenever  he  comes  within  the  smell  of  gun- 
powder. 

I  have  heard  him  speak  his  mind  very  freely  over  his  bottle, 
about  the  folly  of  the  captain  in  taking  a  wife;  as  he  thinks  a 
young  soldier  should  care  for  nothing  but  his  "bottle  and  kind 
landlady/'  But.  in  fact,  he  says  the  service  on  the  continent 
has  had  a  sad  effect  upon  the  young  men;  they  have  been 
ruined  by  light  wines  and  French  quadrilles.  "  They've  noth- 
ing,1' he  says,  "  oi.  the  spirit  of  the  old  service.  There  are  none 
of  your  six-bottle  men  left,  that  were  the  souls  of  a  mess  dinner, 
and  used  to  play  the  very  deuce  among  the  women." 

As  to  a  bachelor,  the  general  affirms  that  he  is  a  free  and  easy 
man.  with  no  baggage  to  take  care  of  but  his  portmanteau;  but 
a  married  man,  with  his  wife  hanging  on  his  arm,  always  puts 
him  in  mind  of  a  chamber  candlestick,  with  its  extinguisher 
hitched  to  it.  I  should  not  mind  all  this,  if  it  were  merely  con- 
fined to  the  general ;  but  I  fear  he  will  be  the  ruin  of  my  friend, 
Master  Simon,  who  already  begins  to  echo  his  heresies,  and  to 
talk  in  the  style  of  a  gentleman  that  has  seen  life,  and  lived 
upon  the  town.  Indeed,  the  general  seems  to  have  taken 
Master  Simon  in  hand,  and  talks  of  showing  him  the  lions 
when  he  comes  to  town,  and  of  introducing  him  to  a  knot  of 
choice  spirits  at  the  Mulligata wney  club;  which,  I  understand, 
is  composed  of  old  nabobs,  officers  in  the  Company's  employ,  and 
other  "men  of  Ind,"  that  have  seen  service  in  the  East,  and 


WIVES.  43 

returned  home  burnt  out  with  curry,  and  touched  with  the 
liver  complaint.  They  have  their  regular  club,  where  they  eat 
Mulligatawney  soup,  smoke  the  hookah^  talk  about  Tippoo 
Sail).  Seringapatam,  and  tiger-hunting;'  and  are  tediously 
agreeable  in  each  other's  company. 


WIVES. 

Believe  me.  man,  there  is  no  greater  blisse 

Than  is  the  quiet  joy  of  loving  wife; 

"Which  whoso  wants,  half  of  hiiuselfe  doth  misse. 

Friend  without  change,  playfellow  without  strife, 

Food  without  fulnesse.  counsai'.e  without  pride, 

Is  this  sweet  doubling  of  our  single  life.— Sir  P.  Sidney. 

There  is  so  much  talk  about  matrimony  going  on  around  me, 
in  consequence  of  the  approaching  event  for  which  we  are  as- 
sembled at  the  Hall,  that  I  confess  I  find  my  thoughts  singularly 
exercised  on  the  subject.  Indeed,  ad  the  bachelors  of  the 
establishment  seem  to  be  passing  through  a  kind  of  fiery 
ordeal;  for  Lady  Lillycraft  is  one  of  those  tender,  romance- 
read  dames  of  the  old  school,  whose  mind  is  filled  with  flames 
and  darts,  and  who  breathe  nothing  but  constancy  and  wedlock. 
She  is  for  ever  immersed  in  the  concerns  of  the  heart ;  and,  to 
use  a  poetical  phrase,  is  perfectly  surrounded  by  "the  purple 
light  of  love."  The  very  general  seems  to  feel  the  influence  of 
this  sentimental  atmosphere;  to  melt  as  he  approaches  her 
ladyship,  and,  for  the  time,  to  forget  all  his  heresies  about 
matrimony  and  the  sex. 

The  good  lady  is  generally  surrounded  by  little  documents  of 
her  prevalent  taste;  novels  of  a  tender  nature ;  richly  bound 
little  books  of  poetry,  that  are  filled  with  sonnets  and  love 
tales,  and  perfumed  with  rose-leaves ;  and  she  has  alw;: 
album  at  hand,  for  which  she  claims  the  contributions  i 
her  friends.  On  looking  over  this  last  repository,  the  other 
day.  I  found  a  series  of  poetical. extracts,  in  the  Squire's  hand- 
writing, which  might  have  been  intended  as  matrimonial  hints 
to  his  ward.  I  was  so  much  struck  with  several  of  them,  that 
I  took  the  liberty  of  copying  them  out.  They  are  from  the  old 
play  of  Thomas  Davenport,  published  in  1G61,  entitled  "The 
City  Night-Cap ;"  in  which  is  drawn  out  and  exemplified,  in 
the  part  of  Abstemia.  the  character  of  a  patient  and  faitnlu] 


44  BRACEBUIDtiE  HALL. 

wife,  which,  I  think,  might  vie  with  that  of  the  renowned 
Griselda. 

I  have  often  thought  it  a  pity  that  plays  and  novels  should 
always  end  at  the  wedding,  and  should  not  give  us  another  act, 
and  another  volume,  to  let  us  know  how  the  hero  and  heroine 
conducted  themselves  when  married.  Their  main  object  seems 
to  be  merely  to  instruct  young  ladies  how  to  get  husbands,  but 
not  how  to  keep  them :  now  this  last,  I  speak  it  with  all  due 
diffidence,  appears  to  me  to  be  a  desideratum  in  modern  mar- 
ried life.  It  is  appalling  to  those  who  have  not  yet  adventured 
into  the  holy  state,  to  see  how  soon  the  flame  of  romantic  love 
burns  out,  or  rather  is  quenched  in  matrimony;  and  how 
deplorably  the  passionate,  poetic  lover  declines  into  the  phleg- 
matic, prosaic  husband.  I  am  inclined  to  attribute  this  very 
much  to  the  defect  just  mentioned  in  the  plays  and  novels, 
which  form  so  important  a  branch  of  study  of  our  young  ladies ; 
and  which  teach  them  how  to  be  heroines,  but  leave  them 
totally  at  a  loss  when  they  come  to  be  wives.  The  play  from 
which  the  quotations  before  me  were  made,  however,  is  an  ex- 
ception to  this  remark ;  and  I  cannot  refuse  myself  the  pleasure 
of  adducing  some  of  them  for  the  benefit  of  the  reader,  and  for 
the  honour  of  an  old  writer,  who  has  bravely  attempted  to 
awaken  dramatic  interest  in  favour  of  a  woman,  even  after  she 
was  married ! 

The  following  is  a  commendation  of  Abstemia  to  her  husband 
Lorenzo : 

She's  modest,  but  not  sullen,  and  loves  silence; 

Not  that  she  wants  apt  words,  (for  when  she  speaks, 

She  inflames  love  with  wonder,)  but  because 

She  calls  wise  silence  the  sonl's  harmony. 

She's  truly  chaste;  yet  such  a  foe  to  coyness, 

The  poorest  call  her  courteous;  and  which  is  excellent 

(Though  fair  and  young)  she  shuns  to  expose  herself 

To  the  opinion  of  strange  eyes.    She  either  seldom 

Or  never  walks  abroad  but  in  your  company, 

And  then  with  such  sweet  bashf  ulness,  as  if 

She  were  venturing  on  crack'd  ice,  and  takes  delight 

To  step  into  the  print  your  foot  hath  made, 

And  will  follow  you  whole  fields;  so  she  will  drive 

Tediousness  out  of  time,  with  her  sweet  character. 

Notwithstanding  all  this  excellence,  Abstemia  has  the  mis- 
fortune to  incur  the  unmerited  jealousy  of  her  husband.  In- 
stead, however,  of  resenting  his  harsh  treatment  with  clamor- 
ous upbraidings,  and  with  the  stormy  violence  of  high,  windy 
virtue,  by  which  the  sparks  of  anger  are  so  often  blown  into  a 


WIVES.  .  45 

flame,  she  endures  it  with  the  meekness  of  conscious,  but. 
patient,  virtue ;  and  makes  the  following  beautiful  appeal  to  a 
friend  who  has  witnessed  her  long  suffering : 

Hast  thou  not  seen  me 

Bear  all  his  injuries,  as  the  ocean  suffers 

The  angry  bark  to  plough  through  her  bosom, 

And  yet  is  presently  so  smooth,  the  >\  e 

Cannot  perceive  where  the  wide  wound  was  made? 

Lorenzo,  being  wrought  on  by  false  representations,  at  length 
repudiates  her.  To  the  last,  however,  she  maintains  her 
patient  sweetness,  and  her  love  for  him,  in  spite  of  his  cruelty. 
She  deplores  his  error,  even  more  than  his  unkindness;  and 
laments  the  delusion  which  has  turned  his  very  affection  into 
a  source  of  bitterness.  There  is  a  moving  pathos  in  her  parting 
address  to  Lorenzo,  after  their  divorce : 

Farewell.  Lorenzo, 

Whom  iny  soul  doth  love:  if  you  e'er  marry, 
May  you  meet  a  good  wife;  so  good,  that  you 
May  not  suspect  her.  nor  may  she  be  worthy 
Ofyoui  suspicion;  and  if  you  hear  hereafter 
That  I  am  dead,  inquire  but  my  last  words, 
And  you  shall  know  that  to  the  last  I  lov'd  you. 
And  when  you  walk  forth  with  your  second  choice 
Into  the  pleasant  fields,  and  by  chance  talk  of  me, 
Imagine  that  3-ou  see  me.  lean  and  pale, 

Strewing  your  path  with  dowers. 

But  may  she  never  live  to  pay  my  debts:  (weeps) 

If  but  in  thought  she  wrong  you,  may  she  die 

In  the  conception  of  the  injury. 

Pray  make  me  wealthy  with  one  kiss:  farewell,  sir: 

Let  it  not  grieve  you  when  you  shall  remember 

That  I  was  innocent:  nor  this  forget, 

Though  innocence  here  suffer,  sigh,  and  groan, 

She  walks  but  thorow  thorns  to  find  a  throne. 

In  a  short  time  Lorenzo  discovers  his  error,  and  the  inno- 
cence of  his  injured  wife.  In  the  transports  of  his  repentance, 
he  calls  to  mind  all  her  feminine  excellence ;  her  gentle,  uncom- 
plaining, womanly  fortitude  under  wrongs  and  sorrows : 

oh.  Abstetaia! 

How  lovely  thou  lookest  now!  now  thou  appearest 

Chaster  than  is  the  morning's  modesty 

That  rises  with  a  blush,  over  whose  bosom 

The  western  wim  Ctly;  now  I  remember 

How.  when  she  sat  at  table,  her  obedient  eye 

Would  dwell  on  mine,  as  if  it  were  not  well, 

Unless  it  look'd  where  I  look'd:  oil  how  proud 

She  was.  when  she  could  cross  herself  to  please  me! 

But  where  now  is  this  fair  soul  !     Like  a  silver  clou** 

She  hath  wept  herself,  I  tear,  into  the  dead  s**:». 

And  will  be  found  no  more. 


46  BRACE3RIDGE  HALL. 

It  is  but  doing  right  by  the  reader,  if  interested  in  the  fate  of 
Abstemia  by  the  preceding  extracts,  to  say,  that  she  was  re- 
stored to  the  arms  and  affections  of  her  husband,  rendered 
fonder  than  ever,  by  that  disposition  in  every  good  heart,  to 
atone  for  past  injustice,  by  an  overflowing  measure  of  return- 
ing kindness : 

Thou  wealth,  worth  more  than  kingdoms;  I  am  now 

Confirmed  past  all  suspicion:  thou  art  far 

Sweeter  in  thy  sincere  truth  than  a  sacrifice 

Deck'd  up  for  death  with  garlands.    The  Indian  winds 

That  blow  from  oft"  the  coasl  and  cheer  the  sailor 

With  the  sweet  savour  of  their  spices,  want 

The  delight  flows  in  thee. 

I  have  been  more  affected  and  interested  by  this  little  drama- 
tic picture,  than  by  many  a  popular  love  tale;  though,  as  I 
aid  before,  I  do  not  think  it  likely  either  Abstemia  or  patient 
Grizzle  stand  much  chance  of  being  taken  for  a  model.  Still  I 
like  to  see  poetry  now  and  then  extending  its  views  beyond  the 
wedding-day,  and  teaching  a  lady  how  to  make  herself  attrac- 
tive even  after  marriage.  There  is  no  great  need  of  enforcing 
on  an  unmarried  lady  the  necessity  of  being  agreeable;  nor  is 
there  any  great  art  requisite  in  a  youthful  beauty  to  enable  her 
to  please.  Nature  has  multiplied  attractions  around  her. 
Youth  is  in  itself  attractive.  The  freshness  of  budding  beauty 
needs  no  foreign  aid  to  set  it  off ;  it  pleases  merely  because  it  is 
fresh,  and  budding,  and  beautiful.  But  it  is  for  the  married 
state  that  a  woman  needs  the  most  instruction,  and  in  which 
she  should  be  most  on  her  guard  to  maintain  her  powers  of 
pleasing.  No  woman  can  expect  to  be  to  her  husband  all  that 
he  fancied  her  when  he  was  a  lover.  Men  are  always  doomed 
to  be  duped,  not  ;o  much  by  the  arts  of  the  sex,  as  by  their  own 
imaginations.  They  are  always  wooing  goddesses,  and  marry- 
ing mere  mortals.  A  woman  should,  therefore,  ascertain  what 
was  the  charm  that  rendered  her  so  fascinating  when  a  girl, 
ind  endeavour  to  keep  it  up  when  she  has  become  a  wife.  One 
great  thing  undoubtedly  was,  6he  chariness  of  herself  and  her 
conduct,  which  an  unmarried  female  always  observes.  She 
should  maintain  the  same  niceness  and  reserve  in  her  person 
and  habits,  and  endeavour  still  to  preserve  a  freshness  and 
virgin  delicacy  in  the  eye  of  her  husband.  She  should  remem- 
ber that  the  province  of  woman  is  to  be  wooed,  not  to  woo ;  to 
be  caressed,  not  to  caress.  Man  is  an  ungrateful  being  in  love; 
bounty  loses  instead  of  winning  him.  The  secret  of  a  woman's 
power  does  not  consist  so  much  in  giving,  as  in  withholding; 


8T0BY  TELLING.  47 

A  woman  may  give  up  too  mucn  even  to  her  husband.  It  is  to 
a  thousand  little  delicacies  of  conduct  that  she  must  trust  to 
keep  alive  passion,  and  to  protect  herself  from  that  dangerous 
familiarity,  that  thorough  acquaintance  with  every  weakness 
and  imperfection  incident  to  matrimony.  By  these  means  she 
may  still  maintain  her  power,  though  she  has  surrendered  her 
person,  and  may  continue  the  romance  of  love  even  beyond  the 
honeymoon. 

"She  that  hath  a  wise  husband,"  says  Jeremy  Taylor, 
"must  entice  him  to  an  eternal  dearnesse  by  the  veil  of  mod- 
esty, and  the  grave  robes  of  chastity,  the  ornament  of  meek- 
ness, and  the  jewels  of  faith  and  charity.  She  must  have  no 
painting  but  blushings;  her  brightness  must  be  purity,  and  she 
muse  shine  round  about  with  sweetness  and  friendship,  and 
she  shall  be  pleasant  while  she  lives,  and  desired  when  she 
dies. 

I  have  wandered  into  a  rambling  series  of  remarks  on  a  trite 
subject,  and  a  dangerous  one  for  a  bachelor  to  meddle  with. 
That  I  may  not,  however,  appear  to  confine  my  observations 
entirely  to  the  wife,  I  will  conclude  with  another  quotation 
from  Jeremy  Taylor,  in  which  the  duties  of  both  parties  are 
mentioned;  while  I  would  recommend  his  sermon  on  the  mar- 
riage-ring to  all  those  who.  wiser  than  myself,  are  about 
entering  the  happy  state  of  wedlock. 

'"There  is  scarce  any  matter  of  duty  but  it  concerns  them 
both  alike,  and  is  only  distinguished  by  names,  and  hath  its 
i y  by  circumstances  and  little  accidents:  and  what  in  one 
is  called  love,  in  the  other  is  called  reverence;  and  what  in  the 
wife  is  obedience,  the  same  in  the  man  is  duty.  He  provides, 
and  she  dispenses :  he  gives  commandments,  and  shv  nil 
them;  he  rules  her  by  authority,  and  she  rules  him  by  love; 
she  ought  by  all  means  to  please  him,  and  he  must  by  no 
means  displease  her." 


STORY  TELLING. 


A  favourite  evening  pastime  at  the  Hall,  and  one  which  the 
worthy  Squire  is  fond  of  promoting,  is  story  telling,  "a  good, 
old-fashioned  fireside  amusement,"  as  he  terms  it.  Indeed, 
I  believe  he  promotes  it,  chiefly,  because  it  was  one  of  the 
choice  recreations  in  those  days  of  yore,  when  ladies  and  gen 


48  •  SB  A  CESR  W  GE  HA  L  n. 

tiemen  were  not  much  in  the  habit  of  reading.  Be  this  as  u 
may,  he  will  often,  at  supper-table,  when  conversation  flags, 
call  on  some  one  or  other  of  the  company  for  a  story,  as  it  was 
formerly  the  custom  to  call  for  a  song;  and  it  is  edifying  to  see 
the  exemplary  patience,  and  e^en  satisfaction,  with  which  the 
good  old  gentleman  will  sit  and  listen  to  some  hackneyed  tale 
'  hat  he  has  heard  for  at  least  a  hundred  times. 

In  this  way,  one  evening,  the  current  of  anecdotes  and  stories 
ran  upon  mysterious  personages  that  have  figured  at  different 
tunes,  and  filled  the  world  with  doubt  and  conjecture ;  such  as 
the  Wandering  Jew,  the  Man  with  the  Iron  Mask,  who  tor- 
mented the  curiosity  of  all  Europe ;  the  Invisible  Girl,  and  last, 
though  not  least,  the  Pig-faced  Lady. 

At  length,  one  of  the  company  was  called  upon  that  had  the 
most  unpromising  physiognomy  tor  a  story  teller,  that  ever 
I  had  seen.  He  was  a  thin,  pale,  weazen-faced  man,  extremely 
nervous,  that  bad  sat  at  one  corner  of  the  table,  shrunk  up,  as 
it  were,  into i  himself,  and  almost  swallowed  up  in  the  cape  of 
his  coat,  as  a  turtle  in  its  shell. 

The  very  demand  seemed  to  throw  him  into  a  nervous  agita- 
tion; yet  he  did  not  refuse.  He  emerged  his. head  out  of  his 
shell,  made  a  few  odd  grimaces  and  gesticulations,  before  he 
could  get  his  muscles  into  order,  or  his  voice  under  command, 
and  then  offered  to  give  some  account  of  a  mysterious  person- 
age that  he  had  recently  encountered  in  the  course  of  his  trav- 
els, and  one  whom  he  thought  fully  entitled  to  being  classed 
with  the  Man  with  the  Iron  Mask. 

I  was  so  much  struck  with  his  extraordinary  narrative,  that 
I  have  written  it  out  to  the  best  of  my  recollection,  for  the 
amusement  of  the  reader.  I  think  it  has  in  it  all  the  elements 
of  that  mysterious  and  romantic  narrative,  so  greedily  sought 
lifter  at  the  present  day. 


THE  STOUT  GENTLEMAN. 

A  STAGE-COACH  ROMANCE. 

"  I'll  cross  it,  though  it  blast  me!"— Hamlet 

It  was  a  rainy  Sunday,  in  the  gloomy  montL  of  November. 
I  had  been  detained,  in  the  course  of  a  journey,  by  a  slight 
indisposition,  from  which  I  was  recovering;  but  I  was  still 


THE  8T0UT  GENTLEMAN.  49 

feverish,  and  was  obliged  to  keep  within  doors  all  day,  in  an  inn 
of  the  small  town  of  Derby.  A  wet  Sunday  in  a  country  inn ! 
— whoever  has  had  the  luck  to  experience  one  can  alone  judge 
of  my  situation.  The  rain  pattered  against  the  casements ;  the 
bells  tolled  for  church  with  a  melancholy  sound.  I  went  to 
the  windows,  in  quest  of  something  to  amuse  the  eye ;  but  it 
seemed  as  if  I  had  been  placed  completely  out  of  the  reach  of 
all  amusement.  The  windows  of  my  bed-room  looked  out 
among  tiled  roofs  and  stacks  of  chimneys,  while  those  of  my 
sitting-room  commanded  a  full  view  of  the  stable-yard.  I 
know  of  nothing  more  calculated  to  make  a  man  sick  of 
this  world,  than  a  stable-yard  on  a  rainy  day.  The  place  was 
tittered  with  wet  straw,  that  had  been  kicked  about  by  travel- 
lers and  stable-boys.  In  one  corner  was  a  stagnant  pool  of 
water,  surrounding  an  island  of  muck;  there  wTere  several 
half-drowned  fowls  crowded  together  imder  a  cart,  among 
which  was  a  miserable,  crest-fallen  cock,  drenched  out  of  all 
life  and  spirit ;  his  drooping  tail  matted,  as  it  were,  into  a  sin- 
gle feather,  along  which  the  water  trickled  from  his  back ;  near 
the  cart  was  a  half -dozing  cow  chewing  the  cud,  and  standing 
patiently  to  be  rained  on,  with  wreaths  of  vapor  rising  from 
her  reeking  hide ;  a  wall-eyed  horse,  tired  of  the  loneliness  of 
the  stable,  was  poking  his  spectral  head  out  of  the  window, 
with  the  rain  dripping  on  it  from  the  eaves ;  an  unhappy  cur, 
chained  to  a  dog-house  hard  by,  uttered  something  eveiy  now 
and  then,  between  a  bark  and  a  yelp;  a  drab  of  a  kitch en- 
wench  tramped  backwards  and  forwards  through  the  yard  in 
pattens,  looking  as  sulky  as  the  weather  itself;  every  thing,  in 
short,  was  comfortless  and  forlorn,  excepting  a  crew  of  hard- 
drinking  ducks,  assembled  like  boon  companions  round  a  pud- 
dle, and  making  a  riotous  noise  over  their  liquor. 

I  was  lonely  and  listless,  and  wanted  amusement.  My  room 
soon  became  insupportable.  I  abandoned  it,  and  sought  what 
is  technically  called  the  travellers'-room.  This  is  a  public 
room  set  apart  at  most  inns  for  the  accommodation  of  a  class 
of  wayfarers  called  travellers,  or  riders ;  a  kind  of  commercial 
knights-errant,  who  are  incessantly  scouring  the  kingdom  in 
gigs,  on  horseback,  or  by  coach.  They  are  the  only  successors 
that  I  know  of.  at  the  present  day,  to  the  knights-errant  of 
yore.  They  lead  the  same  kind  of  roving  adventurous  life,  only 
changing  the  lance  for  a  driving- whip,  the  buckler  for  a  pat- 
tern-card, and  the  coat  of  mail  for  an  upper  Benjamin.  Instead 
of  vindicating  the  charms  of  peerless  beauty,  they  rove  about 


50  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

spreading  the  fame  and  standing  of  some  substantial  traded 
man  or  manufacturer,  and  are  ready  at  any  time  to  bargain  in 
his  name;  it  being  the  fashion  now-a-days  to  trade  instead  of 
fight,  with  one  another.  As  the  room  of  the  hotel,  in  the  good 
old  fighting  times,  would  be  hung  round  at  night  with  the 
armour  of  wayworn  warriors,  such  as  coats  of  mail,  falchions, 
and  yawning  helmets;  so  the  travellirs'-room  is  garnished 
with  the  harnessing  of  their  successors,  with  box-coats,  whips 
of  all  kinds,  spurs,  gaiters,  and  oil-cloth  covered  hats. 

I  was  in  hopes  of  finding  some  of  these  worthies  to  talk  with, 
but  was  disappointed.  There  were,  indeed,  two  or  three  in  the 
room;  but  I  could  make  nothing  of  them.  One  was  just  fin- 
ishing his  breakfast,  quarrelling  with  his  bread  and  butter,  and 
huffing  the  waiter;  another  buttoned  on  a  pair  of  gaiters,  with 
many  execrations  at  Boots  for  not  having  claaned  his  shoes 
well ;  a  third  sat  drumming  on  the  table  with  his  fingers,  and 
looking  at  the  rain  as  it  streamed  down  the  window-glass ;  they 
all  appeared  infected  by  the  weathe? ,  and  disappeared,  one 
after  the  other,  without  exchanging  a  word. 

I  sauntered  to  the  window,  and  stood  gazing  at  the  people 
picking  their  way  to  church,  with  petticoats  hoisted  mid-leg 
high,  and  dripping  umbrellas.  The  bell  ceased  to  toll,  and  the 
streets  became  silent.  I  then  amused  myself  with  watching 
the  daughters  of  a  tradesman  opposite;  who,  being  confined  to 
the  house  for  fear  of  wetting  their  Sunday  finery,  played  off 
their  charms  at  the  front  windows,  to  fascinate  the  chance 
tenants  of  the  inn.  They  at  length  were  summoned  away  by  a 
vigilant  vinegar-faced  mother,  and  I  had  nothing  further  from 
without  to  amuse  me. 

What  was  I  to  do  to  pass  away  the  long-lived  day?  I  was 
sadly  nervous  and  lonely ;  and  every  thing  about  an  inn  seems 
calculated  to  make  a  dull  day  ten  times  duller.  Old  news- 
papers, smelling  of  beer  and  tobacco-smoke,  and  which  I  had 
already  read  half-a-dozen  times— good-for-nothing  books,  that 
were  worse  than  rainy  weather.  I  bored  myself  to  death  with 
an  old  volume  of  the  Lady's  Magazine.  I  read  all  the  common- 
placed names  of  ambitious  travellers  scrawled  on  the  panes  of 
glass;  the  eternal  families  of  the  Smiths,  and  the  Browns,  and 
the  Jacksons,  and  the  Johnsons,  and  all  the  other  sons;  and  I 
deciphered  several  scraps  of  fatiguing  inn-window  poetry  which 
I  have  met  with  in  all  parts  of  the  world. 

The  day  continued  lowering  and  gloomy;  the  slovenly, 
ragged,  spongy  clouds  drifted  heavily  along;   there  was  no 


THE  STOUT  GENTLEMAN.  51 

variety  even  in  the  rain :  it  was  one  dull,  continued,  monoto- 
nous patter — patter— patter,  excepting  that  now  and  then  I  was 
enlivened  by  the  idea  of  a  brisk  shower,  from  the  rattling  of 
the  drops  upon  a  passing  umbrella. 

It  was  quite  refreshing  (if  I  may  be  allowed  a  hackneyed 
phrase  of  the  day)  when,  in  the  course  of  the  morning,  a  horn 
blew,  and  a  stage-coach  whirled  through  the  street,  with  out- 
side passengers  stuck  all  over  it,  cowering  under  cotton  um- 
brellas, and  seethed  together,  and  reeking  with  the  steams  of 
wet  box-coats  and  upper  Benjamins. 

The  sound  brought  out  from  their  lurking-places  a  crew  of 
vagabond  boys,  and  vagabond  dogs,  and  the  carroty-headed 
hostler,  and  that  nondescript  animal  ycleped  Boots,  and  all  the 
other  vagabond  race  that  infest  the  purlieus  of  an  inn ;  but  the 
bustle  was  transient ;  the  coach  again  whirled  on  its  way ;  and 
boy  and  dog,  and  hostler  and  Boots,  all  slunk  back  again  to 
their  holes ;  the  street  again  became  silent,  and  the  rain  con- 
tinued to  rain  on.  In  fact,  there  was  no  hope  of  its  clearing 
up;  the  barometer  pointed  to  rainy  weather;  mine  hostess' 
tortoise-shell  cat  sat  by  the  fire  washing  her  face,  and  rubbing 
her  paws  over  her  ears ;  and,  on  referring  to  the  almanac,  I 
found  a  direful  prediction  stretching  from  the  top  of  the  page 
to  the  bottom  through  the  wh'  >le  month,  ' '  expect — much— rain 
—about — this — time. " 

I  was  dreadfully  hipped,  The  hours  seemed  as  if  they  would 
never  creep  by.  The  very  ticking  of  the  clock  became  irk- 
some. At  length  the  stillness  of  the  house  was  interrupted  by 
the  ringing  of  a  bell.  Shortly  after,  I  heard  the  voice  of  a 
waiter  at  the  bar:  "The  stout  gentleman  in  No.  13  wants  his 
breakfast.  Tea  and  bread  and  butter  with  ham  and  eggs;  the 
eggs  not  to  be  too  much  done." 

In  such  a  situation  as  mine,  every  incident  is  of  importance. 
Here  was  a  subject  of  speculation  presented  to  my  mind,  and 
ample  exercise  for  my  imagination.  I  am  prone  to  paint  pic- 
tures to  myself,  and  on  this  occasion  I  had  some  materials  to 
work  upon.  Had  the  guest  up-stairs  been  mentioned  as  Mr. 
Smith,  or  Mr.  Brown,  or  Mr.  Jackson,  or  Mr.  Johnson,  or 
merely  as  "the  gentleman  in  No.  13,"  it  would  have  been  a 
perfect  blank  to  me.  I  should  have  thought  nothing  of  it ;  but 
"The  stout  gentleman!''— the  very  name  had  something  in  it 
of  the  picturesque.  It  at  once  gave  the  size ;  it  embodied  the 
personage  to  my  mind's  eye,  and  my  fancy  did  the  rest. 

He  was  stout,  or,  as  some  term  it.  lusty;  in  all  probability, 


52  BUACEBPJDOE  BALL. 

therefore,  he  was  advanced  in  life,  some  people  expanding  as 
they  grow  old.  By  his  breakfasting  rather  late,  and  in  his 
own  room,  he  must  he  a  man  accustomed  to  live  at  his  ease, 
and  above  the  necessity  of  early  rising;  no  doubt  a  round,  rosy, 
lusty  old  gentleman. 

There  was  another  violent  ringing.  The  stout  gentlemar 
was  impatient  for  his  breakfast.  He  was  evidently  a  man  of 
importance;  "well-to-do  in  the  world;"  accustomed  to  be 
promptly  waited  upon ;  of  a  keen  appetite,  and  a  little  cross 
when  hungry;  " perhaps, " thought  I,  "he  maybe  some  Lon- 
don Alderman ;  or  who  knows  but  he  may  be  a  Member  of 
Parliament?" 

The  breakfast  was  sent  up  and  there  was  a  short  interval  of 
silence;  he  was,  doubtless,  making  the  tea.  Presently  there 
was  a  violent  ringing,  and  before  it  could  be  answered,  another 
ringing  still  more  violent.  "Bless  me!  what  a  choleric  old 
gentleman!"  The  waiter  came  down  in  a  huff.  The  butter 
was  rancid,  the  eggs  were  '.  verdone,  the  ham  was  too  salt  :— 
the  stout  gentleman  was  evidently  nice  in  his  eating;  one  of 
those  who  eat  and  growl,  an"  keep  the  waiter  on  the  trot,  and 
live  in  a  state  militant  with  the  household. 

The  hostess  got  into  a  iimie,  I  should  observe  that  she  was 
a  brisk,  coquettish  woman;  ;  little  of  a  shrew,  and  something 
of  a  slammerkin,  but  very  pretty  withal ;  with  a  nincompoop 
for  a  husband,  as  shrews  are  apt  to  have.  She  rated  the  ser- 
vants roundly  for  their  negligence  in  sending  up  so  bad  a 
breakfast,  but  said  not  a  word  against  the  stout  gentleman ;  by 
which  I  clearly  perceived  that  he  must  be  a  man  of  conse- 
quence entitled  to  make  a  noise  and  to  give  trouble  at  a  coun- 
try inn.  Other  eggs,  and  ham,  and  bread  and  butter,  were 
sent  up.  They  appeared  to  be  more  graciously  received;  at 
least  there  was  no  further  complaint. 

I  had  not  made  many  trrns  about  the  travellers'-room,  when 
there  was  another  ringing.  Shortly  afterwards  there  was  a 
stir  and  an  inquest  about  the  house.  The  stout  gentleman 
wanted  the  Times  or  the  Chronicle  newspaper.  I  set  him 
down,  therefore,  for  a  whig;  or  rather,  from  his  bemg  so  abso- 
lute and  lordly  where  he  had  a  chance,  I  suspected  him  of 
being  a  radical.  Hunt,  I  had  heard,  was  a  large  man;  "who 
knows, "  thought  I,  '  ■  but  it  is  Hunt  himself !" 

My  curiosity  began  to  be  awakened.  I  inquired  of  the  waiter 
who  was  this  stout  gentleman  that  was  making  all  this  stir; 
but  I  could  jret  no  information:  nobodv  seemed  to  know  his 


THE  STOUT  GENTLEMAN.  53 

name.  The  landlords  of  bustling  inns  seldom  trouble  their 
ueads  about  the  names  or  occupations  of  their  transient  guests. 
The  colour  of  a  coat,  the  shape  or  size  of  the  person,  is  enough  to 
suggest  a  travelling  name.  It  is  either  the  tall  gentleman,  or 
the  short  gentleman,  or  the  gentleman  in  black,  or  the  gentle- 
man in  snuff-colour ;  or,  as  in  the  present  instance,  the  stout 
gentleman.  A  designation  of  the  kind  once  hit  on  answers 
every  purpose,  and  saves  all  further  inquiry. 

Rain— rain — rain !  pitiless,  ceaseless  rain !  No  such  thing  as 
putting  a  foot  out  of  doors,  and  no  occupation  nor  amusement 
within.  By  and  by  I  heard  some  one  walking  overhead.  It 
was  in  the  stout  gentleman's  room.  He  evidently  was  a  large 
man,  by  the  heaviness  of  his  tread ;  and  an  old  man,  from  his 
wearing  such  creaking  soles.  "He  is  doubtless,"  thought  I, 
"  some  rich  old  square-toes,  of  regular  habits,  and  is  now  tak- 
ing exercise  after  breakfast." 

I  now  read  all  the  advertisements  of  coaches  and  hotels  that 
were  stuck  about  the  mantel-piece.  The  Lady's  Magazine  had 
become  an  abomination  to  me ;  it  was  as  tedious  as  the  day  it- 
self. I  wandered  out,  not  knowing  what  to  do,  and  ascended 
again  to  my  room.  I  had  not  been  there  long,  when  there  was 
a  squall  from  a  neighbouring  bed-room.  A  door  opened  and 
slammed  violently ;  a  chamber-maid,  that  I  had  remarked  for 
having  a  ruddy,  good-humoured  face,  went  down-stairs  in  a 
violent  flurry.    The  stout  gentleman  had  been  rude  to  her. 

This  sent  a  whole  host  of  my  deductions  to  the  deuce  in  a 
moment.  This  unknown  personage  could  not  be  an  old  gentle- 
man ;  for  old  gentlemen  are  not  apt  to  be  so  obstreperous  to 
chamber-maids.  He  could  not  be  a  young  gentleman;  for 
young  gentlemen  are  not  apt  to  inspire  such  indignation.  He 
must  be  a  middle-aged  man,  and  confounded  ugly  into  the 
bargain,  or  the  girl  would  not  have  taken  the  matter  in  such 
terrible  dudgeon.    I  confess  I  was  sorely  puzzled. 

In  a  few  minutes  I  heard  the  voice  of  my  landlady.  I  caught 
a  glance  of  her  as  she  came  tramping  up-stairs;  her  face 
glowing,  her  cap  flaring,  her  tongue  wagging  the  whole  way. 
"  She'd  have  no  such  doings  in  her  house,  she'd  warrant!  If 
gentlemen  did  spend  money  freely,  it  was  no  rule.  She'd  have 
no  servant  maids  of  hers  treated  in  that  way,  when  they  were 
abcut  then-  work,  that's  what  she  wouldn't!" 

As  I  hate  squabbles,  particularly  with  women,  and  above  all 
with,  pretty  women,  I  slunk  back  into  my  room,  and  partly 
closed  the  door ;  but  my  curiosity  was  too  much  excited  not  to 


54  BIIACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

listen.  The  landlady  marched  intrepidly  to  the  enemy's  cita- 
del, and  entered  it  with  a  storm :  the  door  closed  after  her.  1 
heard  her  voice  hi  high  windy  clamour  for  a  moment  or  two. 
Then  it  gradually  subsided,  like  a  gust  of  wind  in  a  garret ; 
then  there  was  a  laugh ;  then  I  heard  nothing  more. 

After  a  little  while,  my  landlady  came  out  with  an  odd  smile 
on  her  face,  adjusting  her  cap,  which  was  a  little  on  one  side. 
As  she  went  down-stairs,  I  heard  the  landlord  ask  her  what 
was  the  matter;  she  said,  ''Nothing  at  all,  only  the  girl's  a 
fool."'— I  was  more  than  ever  perplexed  what  to  make  of  this 
unaccountable  personage,  who  could  put  a  good-natured  cham- 
ber-maid in  a  passion,  and  send  away  a  termagant  landlady  in 
smiles.     He  could  not  be  so  old,  nor  cross,  nor  ugly  either. 

I  had  to  go  to  work  at  Ins  picture  again,  and  to  paint  him 
entirely  different.  I  now  set  him  down  for  one  of  those  stout 
gentlemen  that  are  frequently  met  with,  swaggering  about  the 
doors  of  country  inns.  Moist,  merry  fellows,  in  Belcher  hand- 
kerchiefs, whose  bidk  is  a  little  assisted  by  malt  liquors.  Men 
who  have  seen  the  world,  and  been  sworn  at  Highgate ;  who 
are  used  to  tavern  life;  up  to  all  the  tricks  of  tapsters,  and 
knowing  in  the  ways  of  sinful  publicans.  Free-livers  on  a 
small  scale ;  who  are  prodigal  within  the  compass  of  a  guinea ; 
who  call  all  the  waiters  by  name,  touzle  the  maids,  gossip  with 
the  landlady  at  the  bar.  and  prose  over  a  pint  of  port,  or  a 
glass  of  negus,  after  dinner. 

The  morning  wore  away %  in  forming  of  these  and  similar 
surmises.  As  fast  as  I  wove  one  system  of  belief,  some  move- 
ment of  the  unknown  would  completely  overturn  it,  and  throw 
all  my  thoughts  again  into  confusion.  Such  are  the  solitary 
operations  of  a  feverish  mind.  I  was,  as  I  have  said,  extremely 
nervous ;  and  the  continual  meditation  on  the  concerns  of  this 
invisible  personage  began  to  have  its  effect :— I  was  getting  a 
fit  of  the  fidgets. 

Dinner-time  came.  I  hoped  the  stout  gentleman  might  dine 
in  the  travellers'-room,  and  that  I  might  at  length  get  a  view 
of  his  person ;  but  no— he  had  dinner  served  in  his  own  room. 
What  could  be  the  meaning  of  this  solitude  and  mystery?  He 
could  not  be  a  radical ;  there  was  something  too  aristocratical 
in  thus  keeping  himself  apart  from  the  rest  of  the  world,  and 
condemning  himself  to  his  own  dull  company  throughout  a 
rainy  day.  And  then,  too,  he  lived  too  well  for  a  discontented 
politician.  He  seemed  to  expatiate  on  a  variety  of  dishes,  and 
to  sit  over  his  wine  like  a  jolly  friend  of  good  living.    Indeedv 


THE  STOUT  GENTLEMAN.  55 

my  doubts  on  this  head  were  soon  at  an  end;  for  he  could  not 
have  finished  his  first  bottle  before  I  could  faintly  hear  him 
hummirg  a  tune:  and  on  listening,  I  found  it  to  be  ''God  save 
the  King.''  'Twas  plain,  then,  he  was  no  radical,  but  a  ! 
fnl  subject:  one  that  grew  loyal  over  his  bottle,  and  was  ready 
to  stand  by  king  and  constitution,  when  he  could  stand  by 
nothing  else.  But  who  could  he  be?  My  conjectures  began  to 
run  wild.  Was  he  not  some  personage  of  distinction,  travel- 
ling incog.  ?  "  God  knows!"  said  I,  at  my  wit's  end;  "it  may 
be  one  of  the  royal  family  for  aught  I  know,  for  they  are  all 
stout  gentlemen !" 

The  weather  continued  rainy.  The  mysterious  unknown 
kept  his  room,  and,  as  far  as  I  could  judge,  his  chair,  for  I  did 
not  hear  him  move.  In  the  meantime,  as  the  day  advanced, 
the  travellers'-room  began  to  be  frequented.  Some,  who  had 
just  arrived,  came  in  buttoned  up  in  box-coats;  others  came 
home,  who  had  been  dispersed  about  the  town.  Some  took 
their  dinners,  and  some  their  tea.  Had  I  been  in  a  different 
mood,  I  should  have  found  entertainment  in  studying  this 
peculiar  class  of  men.  There  were  two  especially,  who  were 
regular  wags  of  the  road,  and  up  to  all  the  standing  jokes  of 
travellers,  They  had  a  thousand  sly  things  to  say  to  the  wait- 
ing-maid, whom  they  called  Louisa,  and  Ethelinda,  and  a  dozen 
other  fine  names,  changing  the  name  every  time,  and  chuckling 
amazingly  at  their  own  waggery.  My  mind,  however,  had 
become  completely  engrossed  by  the  stout  gentleman.  He  had 
kept  my  fancy  in  chase  during  a  long  day,  and  it  was  not  now 
to  be  diverted  from  the  scent. 

The  evening  gradually  wore  away.  The  travellers  read  the 
papers  two.  or  three  times  over.  Some  drew  round  the  fire, 
and  told  long  stories  about  then-  horses,  about  their  adventures, 
their  overturns,  and  breakings  down.  They  discussed  the  cred- 
its of  different  merchants  and  different  inns ;  and  the  two  wags 
told  several  choice  anecdotes  of  pretty  chamber-maids,  and  kind 
landladies.  All  this  passed  as  they  were  quietly  taking  what 
they  called  their  night-caps,  that  is  to  say,  strong  glasses  of 
brandy  and  water  and  sugar,  or  some  other  mixture  of  the 
kind;  after  which  they  one  after  another  rang  for  ''Boots1' 
and  the  chamber-maid,  and  walked  off  to  bed  in  old  shoes  cut 
down  into  marvellously  uncomfortable  slippers. 

There  was  only  one  man  left;  a  short -legged,  long-bodied, 
plethoric  fellow,  with  a  very  large,  sandy  head.  He  sat  by 
himself,  with  a  glass  of  port  wine  negus,  and  a  spoon;  sipping 


56  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

and  stirring,  and  meditating  and  sipping,  until  nothing  was 
left  but  the  spoon.  He  gradually  fell  asleep  bolt  upright  in  his 
chair,  with  the  empty  glass  standing  before  him ;  and  the  can- 
dle seemed  to  fall  asleep  too,  for  the  wick  grew  long,  and  black, 
and  cabbaged  at  tho  end,  and  dimmed  the  little  light  that  Re- 
mained in  the  chamber.  The  gloom  that  now  prevailed  was 
contagious.  Around  hung  the  shapeless,  and  almost  spectral, 
box-coats  of  departed  travellers,  long  since  buried  in  deep 
sleep.  I  only  heard  the  ticking  of  the  clock,  with  the  deep- 
drawn  breathings  of  the  sleeping  topers,  and  the  drippings  of 
the  rain,  drop— drop— drop,  from  the  eaves  of  the  house.  The 
church-bells  chimed  midnight.  All  at  once  the  stout  gentle- 
man began  to  walk  overhead,  pacing  slowly  backwards  and 
forwards.  There  was  something  extremely  awful  in  all  this, 
especially  to  one  in  my  state  of  nerves.  These  ghastly  great- 
coats, these  guttural  breathings,  and  the  creaking  footsteps  of 
this  mysterious  being.  His  steps  grew  fainter  and  fainter,  and 
at  length  died  away.  I  could  bear  it  no  longer.  I  was  wound 
up  to  the  desperation  of  a  hero  of  romance.  uBe  he  who  or 
what  he  may.''  said  I  to  myself,  "I'll  have  a  sight  of  him!"  I 
seized  a  chamber  candle,  and  hurried  up  to  number  13.  The 
dour  stood  ajar.  I  hesitated — I  entered :  the  room  was  desert- 
ed. There  stood  a  large,  broad-bottomed  elbow  chair  at  a  table, 
on  which  waa  an  empty  tumbler,  and  a  "  Times  "  newspaper, 
and  the  room  smelt  powerfully  of  Stilton  cheese. 

The  mysterious  stranger  had  evidently  but  just  retired.  I 
turned  off,  sorely  disappointed,  to  my  room,  which  had  been 
changed  to  the  front  of  the  house.  As  I  went  along  the  corri- 
dor, I  saw  a  large  pair  of  boots,  with  dirty,  waxed  tops,  stand- 
ing at  the  door  of  a  bed-chamber.  They  doubtless  belonged  to 
the  unknown ;  but  it  would  not  do  to  disturb  so  redoubtable  a 
personage  in  his  den;  he  might  discharge  a  pistol,  or  something 
worse,  at  my  head.  I  went  to  bed,  therefore,  and  lay  awake 
half  the  night  in  a  terrible  nervous  state ;  and  even  when  I  fell 
asleep,  I  was  still  haunted  in  my  dreams  by  the  idea  of  the 
stout  gentleman  and  his  wax-topped  boots. 

I  slept  rather  late  the  next  mcrning,  and  was  awakened  by 
some  stir  and  bustle  in  the  house,  which  I  could  not  at  first 
comprehend;  until  getting  more  awake,  I  found  there  was  a 
mail-coach  starting  from  the  door.  Suddenly  there  was  a  cry 
from  below,  % '  The  gentleman  has  forgot  his  umbrella !  look  for 
the  gentleman's  umbrella  in  No.  13!"  I  heard  an  immediate 
scampering  of  a  chamber-maid  along  the  passage,  and  a  shrill 


FOREST  TREES.  57 

reply  as  she  ran,    "Here  it  is!  here's  the  gentleman's  um- 
brella!" 

The  mysterious  stranger  then  was  on  the  point  of  setting  oil. 
This  was  the  only  chance  I  should  ever  have  of  knowing  him. 
I  sprang  out  of  bed,  scrambled  to  the  window,  snatched  aside 
the  curtains,  and  just  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  rear  of  a  person 
getting  in  at  the  coach-door.  The  skirts  of  a  brown  coat  parted 
behind,  and  gave  me  a  full  view  of  the  broad  disk  of  a  pair  u: 
drab  breeches.  The  door  closed — "all  right!"  was  the  word — 
the  coach  whirled  off : — and  that  was  ail  I  ever  saw  of  the  stout 
gentleman ! 


FOREST  TREES. 

"  A  living  gallery  of  aged  trees.'' 

Oxe  of  the  favourite  themes  of  boasting  with  the  Squire,  is 
the  noble  trees  on  his  estate,  which,  in  truth,  has  some  of  tho 
finest  that  I  have  seen  in  England.  There  is  something  august 
and  solemn  in  the  great  avenues  of  stately  oaks  that  gather 
their  branches  together  high  in  air.  and  seem  to  reduce  the 
pedestrians  beneath  them  to  mere  pigmies.  ''An  avenue  of 
oaks  or  elms,"  the  Squire  observes,  "is  the  true  colonnade  that 
should  lead  to  a  gentleman's  house.  As  to  stone  and  marble, 
any  one  can  rear  them  at  once— they  are  the  work  of  the  day ; 
but  commend  me  to  the  colonnades  that  have  grown  old  and 
great  with  the  family,  and  tell  by  their  grandeur  how  long  the 
family  has  endured." 

The  Squire  has  great  reverence  for  certain  venerable  trees, 
gray  with  moss,  which  he  considers  as  the  ancient  nobility  of  his 
domain.  There  is  the  ruin  of  an  enormous  oak,  which  has  been 
so  much  battered  by  time  and  tempest,  that  scarce  any  thing 
is  left:  though  he  says  Christy  recollects  when,  in  his  boyhood, 
it  was  healthy  and  flourishing,  until  it  was  struck  by  lightning. 
It  is  now  a  mere  trunk,  with  one  twisted  bough  stretching  up 
into  the  air,  leaving  a  green  branch  at  the  end  of  it.  This 
sturdy  wreck  is  much  valued  by  the  Squire;  he  calls  it  his 
standard-bearer,  and  compares  it  to  a  veteran  warrior  beaten 
down  in  battle,  but  bearing  up  his  banner  to  the  last.  He  has 
actually  had  a  fence  built  round  it,  to  protect  it  as  much  as 
possible  from  further  injury. 


BRACEBUIDQE  HALL. 

It  is  with  great  difficulty  that  the  Squire  can  ever  be  brought 
to  have  any  tree  cut  down  on  his  estate.     To  some  he  looks 
with  reverence,  as  having  been  planted  by  his  ancestors;  to 
others  with  a  kind  of  paternal  affection,  as  having  been  planted 
by  himself;  and  ho  feels  a  degree  of  awe  in  bringing  down, 
with  a  few  strokes  of  the  axe,  what  it  has  cost  centuries  to 
build  up.     I  confess  I  cannot  but  sympathize,  in  some  degree, 
with  the  good  Squire  on  the  subject.     Though  brought  up  in  a 
country  overrun  with  forests,  where  trees  are  apt  to  be  consid- 
ered mere  encumbrances,  and  to  be  laid  low  without  hesitation 
or  remorse,  yet  I  could  never  see  a  fine  tree  hewn  down  without 
concern.     The  poets,  who  are  naturally  lovers  of  trees,  as  they 
are  of  every  thing  that  is  beautiful,  have  artfully  awakened 
great  interest  in  their  favour,  by  representing  them  as  the  habi- 
tations of  sylvan  deities ;  insomuch  that  every  great  tree  had  its 
tutelar  genius,  or  a  nymph,  whose  existence  was  limited  to  its 
duration.     Evelyn,  in  his  Sylva,  makes  several  pleasing  and 
fanciful  allusions  to  this  superstition.     ''As  the  fall,"  says  he, 
"of  a  very  ;>£cd  oak,  giving  a  crack  like  thunder,  has  often 
been  heard   at   many  miles,  distance;  constrained  though  I 
often  am  to  fell  them  with  reluctancy,  I  do  not  at  any  time  re- 
member to  have  heard  the  groans  of  those  nymphs  (grieving  to 
be  dispossessed    of  their  ancient  habitations)  without  some 
emotion  and  pity."    And  again,  in  alluding  to  a  violent  storm 
that  had  devastated  the  woodlands,  he  says,  "Methinks  I  still 
hear,   sure  I  am  that  I  still  feel,  the  dismal  groans  of  our 
forests;  the  late  dreadful  hurricane  having  subverted  so  many 
thousands  of  goodly  oaks,  prostrating  the  trees,  laying  them  in 
ghastly  postures,  like  whole  regiments  fallen  in  battle  by  the 
sword  of  the  conqueror,  and  crushing  all  that  grew  beneath 
them.     The  public  accounts,"  he  adds,  "reckon  no  less  than 
three  thousand  brave  oaks  in  one  part  only  of  the  forest  of 
Dean  blown  down." 

I  have  paused  more  than  once  in  the  wilderness  of  America, 
to  contemplate  the  traces  of  some  blast  of  wind,  which  seemed 
to  have  rushed  down  from  the  clouds,  and  ripped  its  way 
through  the  bosom  of  the  woodlands;  rooting  up,  shivering, 
and  splintering  the  stoutest  trees,  and  leaving  a  long  track  of 
desolation.  There  was  something  awful  in  the  vast  havoc  made 
among  these  gigantic  plants;  and  in  considering  their  magnifi- 
cent remains,  so  rudely  torn  and  mangled,  and  hurled  down  to 
perish  prematurely  on  their  native  soil,  I  was  conscious  of  a 
strong  movement  of  the  sympathy  so  feelingly  expressed  by 


si 

si 

: 

h 


FOREST  TREES.  59 

Evelyn.  I  recollect,  also,  hearing-  a  traveller  of  poetical  tem- 
perament expressing  the  kind  of  horror  which  he  felt  on  be- 
holding on  the  banks  of  the  Missouri,  an  oak  of  prodigious  size, 
which  had  been,  in  a  maimer,  overpowered  by  an  enormous 
wild  grape-vine.  The  vine  had  clasped  its  huge  folds  round  the 
trunk,  and  from  thence  had  wound  about  every  branch  and 
twig,  until  the  mighty  tree  had  withered  in  its  embrace.  It 
seemed  like  Laocoon  struggling  ineffectually  in  the  hideous 
coils  of  the  monster  Python.  It  was  the  lion  of  fcrees  perishing 
in  the  embraces  of  a  vegetable  boa. 

I  am  fond  of  listening  to  the  conversation  of  English  gentle- 
men on  rural  concerns,  and  of  noticing  with  what  taste  and 
discrimination,  and  what  strong,  unaffected  interest  they  will 
discuss  topics,  which,  in  other  countries,  are  abandoned  to 
mer  woodmen,  or  rustic  cultivators.  I  have  heard  a  noble 
earl  descant  on  park  and  forest  scenery  with  the  science  and 
feeling  of  a  painter.  He  dwelt  c:i  the  shape  and  beauty  of  par- 
ticular trees  on  his  estate,  with  as  much  pride  and  technical 
precision  as  thougn  he  had  been  discussing  the  merits  of  statues 
in  his  collection  I  found  that  he  had  even  gone  considerable 
distances  to  examine  trees  which  were  celebrated  among  rural 
amateurs ;  for  it  seems  that  trees,  like  horses,  have  their  estab- 
lished points  of  excellence ;  and  that  there  are  some  in  England 
which  enjoy  very  extensive  celebrity  among  tree-fanciers,  from 
being  perfect  in  their  kind. 

There  is  something  nobly  simple  and  pure  in  such  a  taste: 
it  argues,  I  think,  a  sweet  and  generous  nature,  to  have  this 
strong  relish  for  the  beauties  of  vegetation,  and  this  friend- 
ship for  the  hardy  and  glorious  sons  of  the  forest.     There  is 
a  grandeur  of  thought  connected  with  this  part  of  rural  econ- 
my.     It  is.  if  I  may  be  allowed  the  figure,  the  heroic  line  of 
ushandry.    It  is  worthy  of  liberal,  and  free-born,  and  asmring 
men.     He  who  plants  an  oak.  looks  forward  to  future  a 
and  plants  for  posterity.     Nothing  can  be  less  selfish  than  tin's. 
He  cannot  expect  to  sit  in  its  shade,  nor  enjoy  its  shelter; 
he  exults  in  the  idea  that  the  acorn  which  he  has  buried  in  the 
earth  shall  grow  up  into  a  lofty  pile,  an  1  shall  keep  on  flour- 
ishing, and  increasing,  and  benefiting  mankind,  long  after  he 
shall  have  ceased  to  tread  his  paternal  fields.    Indeed,  it  i 
nature  of  such  occupations  to  lift  the  thoughts  above  mere 
worldliness.     As  the  leaves  of  trees  are  said  bo  absorb  all 
inns  qualities  of  the  air,  and  to  breathe  forth  a  purer  atmosphere, 
so  it  seems  to  me  as  if  they  drew  from  us  all  sordid  and  angrj 


60  BRAVEBRIDGE  HALL. 

passions,  and  breathed  forth  peace  and  philanthropy.  There  is 
a  serene  and  settled  majesty  in  woodland  scenery,  that  enters 
into  the  soul,  and  dilates  and  elevates  it,  and  fills  it  with  noble 
inclinations.  The  ancient  and  hereditary  groves,  too,  that 
embower  this  island,  are  most  of  them  full  of  story.  They 
are  haunted  by  the  recollections  of  great  spirits  of  past  ages, 
who  have  sought  for  relaxation  among  them  from  the  tumult 
of  arms,  or  the  toils  of  state,  or  have  wooed  the  muse  beneath 
theii  shade.  Who  can  walk,  with  soul  unmoved,  among  the 
stately  groves  of  Penshurst,  where  the  gallant,  the  amiable, 
the  elegant  Sir  Philip  Sidney  passed  his  boyhood ;  or  can  look 
without  fondness  upon  the  tree  that  is  said  to  have  been 
planted  on  his  birthday;  or  can  ramble  among  the  classic 
bowers  of  Hagley ;  or  can  pause  among  the  solitudes  of  Wind- 
sor Forest,  and  look  at  the  oaks  around,  huge,  gray,  and  time- 
worn,  like  the  old  castle  towers,  and  not  feel  as  if  he  were  sur- 
rounded by  so  many  monuments  of  long-enduring  glory?  It  is, 
when  viewed  in  this  light,  that  planted  groves,  and  stately 
avenues,  and  cultivated  parks,  have  an  advantage  over  the 
more  luxuriant  beauties  of  unassisted  nature.  It  is  that  they 
teem  with  moral  associations,  and  keep  up  the  ever-interesting 
story  of  human  existence. 

It  is  incumbent,  then,  on  the  high  and  generous  spirits  of  an 
ancient  nation,  to  cherish  these  sacred  groves  that  surround 
their  ancestral  mansions,  and  to  perpetuate  them  to  their  de- 
scendants. Republican  as  I  am  by  birth,  and  brought  up  as  I 
have  been  in  republican  principles  and  habits,  I  can  feel  noth- 
ing of  the  servile  reverence  for  titled  rank,  merely  because  it 
is  titled ;  but  I  trust  that  I  am  neither  churl  nor  bigot  in  my 
creed.  I  can  both  see  and  feel  how  hereditary  distinction, 
when  it  falls  to  the  lot  of  a  generous  mind,  may  elevate  that 
mind  into  true  nobility.  It  is  one  of  the  effects  of  hereditary 
rank,  when  it  falls  thus  happily,  that  it  multiplies  the  duties, 
and,  as  it  were,  extends  the  existence  of  the  possessor.  He 
does  not  feel  himself  a  mere  individual  link  in  creation,  respon- 
sible only  for  his  own  brief  term  of  being.  He  carries  back  his 
existence  in  proud  recollection,  and  he  extends  it  forward  in 
honourable  anticipation.  He  lives  with  his  ancestry,  and  he 
lives  with  his  posterity.  To  both  does  he  consider  himself 
involved  in  deep  responsibilities  As  he  has  received  much 
from  those  that  have  gone  before,  so  he  feels  bound  to  trans- 
mit much  to  those  who  are  to  come  after  him.  His  domestic 
undertakings  seem  to  imply  a  longer  existence  than  those  of 


.4   LITERARY   ANTIQUARY.  61 

ordinary  men ;  none  are  so  apt  to  build  and  plant  for  future 
centuries,  as  noble-spirited  men,  who  have  received  their 
heritages  from  foregone  ages. 

I  cannot  but  applaud,  therefore,  the  fondness  and  pride 
with  which  I  have  noticed  English  gentlemen,  of  generous 
temperaments,  and  high  aristocratic  feelings,  contemplating 
those  magnificent  trees,  which  rise  like  towers  and  pyramids, 
from  the  midst  of  their  paternal  lands.  There  is  an  affinity 
between  all  nature,  animate  and  inanimate:  the  oak,  in  the 
pride  and  lustihood  of  its  growth,  seems  to  me  to  take  its 
range  with  the  lion  and  the  eagle,  and  to  assimilate,  in  the 
grandeur  of  its  attributes,  to  heroic  and  intellectual  man.  With 
its  mighty  pillar  rising  straight  and  direct  towards  heaven, 
bearing  up  its  leafy  honours  from  the  impurities  of  earth,  and 
supporting  them  aloft  in  free  air  and  glorious  sunshine,  it  is  an 
emblem  of  what  a  true  nobleman  should  be;  a  refuge  for  the 
weak,  a  shelter  for  the  oppressed,  a  defence  for  the  defence- 
less ;  warding  off  from  them  the  peltings  of  the  storm,  or  the 
scorching  rays  of  arbitrary  power.  He  who  is  this,  is  an  orna- 
ment and  a  blessing  to  his  native  land.  He  who  is  otherwise, 
abuses  his  eminent  advantages;  abuses  the  grandeur  and 
prosperity  which  he  has  drawn  from  the  bosom  of  his  country. 
Should  tempests  arise,  and  he  be  laid  prostrate  by  the  storm, 
who  would  mourn  over  his  fall  \  Should  he  be  borne  down  by 
the  oppressive  hand  of  power,  who  would  murmur  at  his 
fate?— "Why  cumbereth  he  the  ground?'' 


A  LITERARY  ANTIQUARY. 

Printed  bookes  he  contemncs.  as  a  novelty  of  this  latter  ;ige:  but  a  manuscript  he 
pores  on  everlastingly;  especially  if  the  cover  be  all  moth-eaten,  and  the  dust  make 
a  parenthesis  betweene  every  ByUaMe.—Mico-Cosmographie,  18 

The  Squire  receives  great  sympathy  and  support,  in  his  anti- 
quated humours,  from  the  parson,  of  whom  I  made  seme  men- 
tion on  my  former  visit  to  the  Hall,  and  who  acts  as  a  kind  of 
family  chaplain.  He  has  been  cherished  by  the  Squire  all 
constantly,  since  the  time  that  they  wen1  fellow-students  at 
Oxford;  for  it  is  one  of  the  peculiar  advantages  of  these  great 
universities,  that  they  often  link  the  poor  scholar  to  the  rich 
patron,  by  early  and  heart-felt  ties,  that  last  through  life,  with- 


62  BRAGEBRIDQE  HALL. 

out  the  usual  humiliations  of  dependence  and  patronage.  Under 
the  fostering  protection  of  the  Squire,  therefore,  the  little  par- 
son has  pursued  his  studies  in  peace.  Having  lived  almost 
entirely  among  books,  and  those,  too,  old  books,  he  is  quite 
ignorant  of  the  world,  and  his  mind  is  as  antiquated  as  the 
garden  at  the  Hall,  where  the  flowers  are  all  arranged  in  formal 
beds,  and  the  yew-trees  clipped  into  urns  and  peacocks. 

His  taste  for  literary  antiquities  was  first  imbibed  in  the 
Bodleian  Library  at  Oxford ;  where,  when  a  student,  he  passed 
many  an  hour  I  <  »raging  among  the  old  manuscripts.  He  has 
since,  at  different  times,  visited  most  of  the  curious  libraries  in 
England,  and  has  ransacked  many  of  the  cathedrals.  With  all 
Ins  quaint  and  curious  learning,  he  has  nothing  of  arrogance  or 
pedantry:  but  that  unaffected  earnestness  and  guileless  sim- 
plicity which  see  a  to  belong  to  the  literary  antiquary. 

J  Ie  is  a  dark,  mouldy  little  man.  and  rather  dry  in  his  manner; 
yet.  on  his  favourite  theme,  he  kindles  up.  and  at  times  is  even 
eloquent.  No  fox-hunter,  recounting  his  last  day's  sport,  could 
be  more  animated  than  I  have  seen  the  worthy  parson,  when 
relating  his  search  after  a  curious  document,  which  he  had 
■d  from  library  to  library,  until  he  fairly  unearthed  it  in 
the  dusty  chapter-house  of  a  cathedral.  When,  too,  he  describes 
some  venerable  manuscript,  with  its  rich  illuminations,  its  thick 
creamy  vellum,  its  glossy  ink,  and  the  odour  of  the  cloisters  that 
seemed  to  exhale  from  it,  he  rivals  the  enthusiasm  of  a  Parisian 
epicure,  expatiating  on  the  merits  of  a  Perigord  pie,  or  a  Patte 
de  Strasbourg. 

His  brain  seems  absolutely  haunted  with  love-sick  dreams 
about  gorgeous  old  works  in  "silk  linings,  triple  gold  bands, 
and  tinted  leather,  locked  up  in  wire  eases,  and  secured  from 
the  vulgar  hands  of  the  mere  reader;1'  and,  to  continue  the 
happy  expressions  of  an  ingenious  writer,  "dazzling  one's  eyes 
like  eastern  beauties,  peering  through  their  jealousies."  * 

He  has  a  great  desire,  however,  to  read  such  works  in  the  old 
libraries  and  chapter-houses  to  which  they  belong;  for  he 
thinks  a  black-letter  volume  reads  best  in  one  of  those  venera- 
ble chambers  where  the  light  struggles  through  dusty  lancet 
windows  and  painted  glass ;  and  that  it  loses  half  its  zest,  if 
taken  away  from  the  neighbourhood  of  the  quaintly-carved 
oaken  book-case  and  Gothic  reading-desk.  At  his  suggestion, 
the  Squire  has  had  the  library  furnished  in  this  antique  taste, 


Disraeli— Curiosities  of  Literature. 


A  LI  TEE  ART  AXTIQUARY.  63 

and  several  of  the  windows  glazed  with  painted  glass,  that  they 
may  throw  a  properly  tempered  light  upon  the  pages  of  their 
favourite  old  authors. 

The  parson,  I  am  told,  has  been  for  some  time  meditating  a 
commentary  on  Strutt,  Brand,  and  Douce,  in  which  he  means 
to  detect  them  in  sundry  dangerous  errors  in  respect  to  popular 
games  and  superstitions ;  a  work  to  which  the  Squire  looks  for- 
ward with  great  interest.  He  is,  also,  a  casual  contributor  to 
that  long-established  repository  of  national  customs  and  antiq- 
uities, the  Gentleman's  Magazine,  and  is  one  of  those  that  every 
now  and  then  make  an  inquiry  concerning  some  obsolete  cus- 
tom or  rare  legend ;  nay,  it  is  said  that  several  of  his  commun- 
ications have  been  at  least  six  inches  in  length.  He  frequently 
receives  parcels  by  coach  from  different  parts  of  the  kingdom, 
containing  mouldy  volumes  and  almost  illegible  manuscripts ; 
for  it  is  singular  what  an  active  correspondence  is  kept  up 
among  literary  antiquaries,  and  how  soon  the  fame  of  any  rare 
volume,  or  unique  copy,  just  discovered  among  the  rubbish 
of  a  library,  is  circulated  among  them.  The  parson  is  more 
busy  than  common  just  now,  being  a  little  flurried  by  an  ad- 
vertisement of  a  work,  said  to  be  preparing  for  the  press,  on 
the  mythology  of  the  middle  ages.  The  little  man  has  long 
been  gathering  together  all  the  hobgoblin  tales  he  could  collect, 
illustrative  of  the  superstitions  of  former  times ;  and  he  is  in 
a  complete  fever  lest  this  formidable  rival  should  take  the 
field  before  him. 

Shortly  after  my  arrival  at  the  Hall,  I  called  at  the  parson- 
age, in  company  with  Mr.  Bracebridge  and  the  general.  The 
parson  had  not  been  seen  for  several  days,  which  was  a  matter 
of  some  surprise,  as  he  was  an  almost  daily  visitor  at  the  Hall. 
We  found  him  in  his  study ;  a  small  dusky  chamber,  lighted  by 
a  lattice  window  that  looked  into  the  church-yard,  and  was 
overshadowed  by  a  yew-tree.  His  chair  was  surrounded  by 
folios  and  quartos,  piled  upon  the  floor,  and  his  table  was  cov- 
ered with  books  and  manuscripts.  The  cause  of  his  seclusion 
was  a  work  which  he  had  recently  received,  and  with  which 
he  had  retired  in  rapture  from  the  world,  and  shut  himself  up 
to  enjoy  a  literary  honeymoon  undisturbed.  Never  did  board- 
ing-school girl  devour  the  pages  of  a  sentimental  novel,  or  Don 
Quixote  a  chivalrous  romance,  with  more  intense  delight  than 
did  the  little  man  banquet  on  the  pages  of  this  delicious  work. 
It  was  Dibdiu's  Bibliographical  Tour;  a  work  calculated  to  have 
intoxicating  an  effect  on  the  imaginations  of  literary  anti- 


64  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

quaries,  as  the  adventures  of  the  heroes  of  the  round  table,  on 
all  true  knights ;  or  the  tales  of  the  early  American  voyagers 
on  the  ardent  spirits  of  the  age,  filling  them  with  dreams  of 
Mexican  and  Peruvian  mines,  and  of  the  golden  realm  of  El 
Dorado. 

The  good  parson  had  looked  forward  to  this  bibliographical 
expedition  as  of  far  greater  importance  than  those  to  Africa  or 
the  North  Pole.  With  what  eagerness  had  he  seized  upon  the 
history  of  the  enterprise !  with  what  interest  had  he  followed 
the  redoubtable  bibliographer  and  his  graphical  squire  in  their 
adventurous  roamings  among  Norman  castles,  and  cathedrals, 
and  French  libraries,  and  German  convents  and  universities; 
penetrating  into  the  prison-houses  of  vellum  manuscripts,  and 
exquisitely  illuminated  missals,  and  revealing  their  beauties  to 
the  world ! 

When  the  parson  had  finished  a  rapturous  eulogy  on  this 
most  curious  and  entertaining  work,  he  drew  forth  from  a  little 
drawer  a  manuscript,  lately  received  from  a  correspondent, 
which  had  perplexed  him  sadly.  It  was  written  in  Norman 
French,  in  very  ancient  characters,  and  so  faded  and  mouldered 
away  as  to  be  almost  illegible.  It  was  apparently  an  old  Norman 
drinking  song,  that  might  have  been  brought  over  by  one  of 
William  the  Conqueror's  carousing  followers.  The  writing  was 
just  legible  enough  to  keep  a  keen  antiquity-hunter  on  a  doubt- 
ful chase ;  here  and  there  he  would  be  completely  thrown  out, 
and  then  there  would  be  a  few  words  so  plainly  written  as  to 
put  him  on  the  scent  again.  In  this  way  he  had  been  led  on 
for  a  whole  day,  until  he  had  found  himself  completely  at 
fault. 

The  Squire  endeavoured  to  assist  him,  but  was  equally  baffled. 
The  old  general  listened  for  some  time  to  the  discussion,  and 
then  asked  the  parson  if  he  had  read  Captain  Morris's,  or 
George  Stevens's,  or  Anacreon  Moore's  bacchanalian  songs? 
On  the  other  replying  in  the  negative,  "Oh,  then,"  said  the 
general,  with  a  sagacious  nod,  "  if  you  want  a  drinking  song, 
I  can  furnish  you  with  the  latest  collection— I  did  not  know 
you  had  a  turn  for  those  kind  of  things ;  and  I  can  lend  you 
the  Encyclopedia  of  Wit  into  the  bargain.  I  never  travel  with- 
out them;  they're  excellent  reading  at  an  inn." 

It  would  not  be  easy  to  describe  the  odd  look  of  surprise  and 
perplexity  of  the  parson,  at  this  proposal;  or  the  difficulty  the 
Squire  had  in  making  the  general  comprehend,  that  though  a 
jovial  song  of  the  present  day  was  but  a  foolish  sound  in  the 


A  LITERARY  ANTIQUARY. 


<tt 


ears  of  -wisdom,  and  beneath  the  notice  of  a  learned  man,  yet  a 
trowl,  written  by  a  tosspot  several  hundred  years  since,  was  » 
matter  worthy  of  the  gravest  research,  and  enough  to  se* 
whole  colleges  by  the  ears. 

I  have  since  pondered  much  on  this  matter,  and  have 
figured  to  myself  what  may  be  the  fate  of  our  current  litera- 
ture, when  retrieved,  piecemeal,  by  future  antiquaries,  from 
among  the  rubbish  of  ages.  What  a  Magnus  Apollo,  for 
instance,  will  Moore  become,  among  sober  divines  and  dusty 
schoolmen!  Even  his  festive  and  amatory  songs,  which  are 
now  the  mere  quickeners  of  our  social  moments,  or  the  delights 
of  our  drawing-rooms,  will  then  become  matters  of  laborious 
research  and  painful  collation.  How  many  a  grave  professor 
will  then  waste  his  midnight  oil,  or  worry  his  brain  through  a 
long  morning,  endeavouring  to  restore  the  pure  text,  or  illus- 
trate the  biographical  hints  of  "Come,  tell  me,  says  Rosa,  as 
kissing  and  kissed ;"  and  how  many  an  arid  old  bookworm,  like 
the  worthy  little  parson,  will  give  up  in  despair,  after  vainly 
striving  to  fill  up  some  fatal  hiatus  in  "  Fanny  of  Timmol" ! 

Nor  is  it  merely  such  exquisite  authors  as  Moore  that  are 
doomed  to  consume  the  oil  of  future  antiquaries.  Many  a  poor 
scribbler,  who  is  now,  apparently,  sent  to  oblivion  by  pastry- 
cooks and  cheese-mongers,  will  then  rise  again  in  fragments, 
and  flourish  in  learned  immortality. 

After  all,  thought  I,  time  is  not  such  an  invariable  destroyer 
as  he  is  represented.  If  he  pulls  down,  he  likewise  builds  up ; 
if  he  impoverishes  one,  he  enriches  another ;  his  very  dilapida- 
tions furnish  matter  for  new  works  of  controversy,  and  his 
rust  is  more  precious  than  the  most  costly  gilding.  Under  his 
plastic  hand,  trifles  rise  into  importance ;  the  nonsense  of  one 

;e  becomes  the  wisdom  of  another;  the  levity  of  the  wit  gravi- 
tates into  the  learning  of  the  pedant,  and  an  ancient  farthing 
moulders  into  infinitely  more  value  than  a  modern  guinea. 


36  BRACEBR1B  QE  HALL. 


THE  FARM-HOUSE. 

"  Love  and  hay 

Are  thick  sown,  but  come  up  full  of  thistles." 

— Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 

I  was  so  much  pleased  with  the  anecdotes  which  were  told 
me  of  Ready-Money  Jack  Tibbets,  that  I  got  Master  Simon,  a 
day  or  two  since,  to  take  me  to  his  house.  It  was  an  old 
fashioned  farm-house  built  with  brick,  with  curiously  twisted 
chimneys.  It  stood  at  a  little  distance  from  the  road,  with  a 
southern  exposure,  looking  upon  a  soft  green  slope  of  meadow. 
There  was  a  small  garden  in  front,  with  a  row  of  bee-hives 
humming  among  beds  of  sweet  herbs  and  flowers.  Well- 
scoured  milking  tubs,  with  bright  copper  hoops,  hung  on  the 
garden  paling.  Fruit  trees  were  trained  up  against  the  cottage, 
and  pots  of  flowers  stood  in  the  windows.  A  fat,  superannuated 
mastiff  lay  in  the  sunshine  at  the  door ;  with  a  sleek  cat  sleep- 
ing peacefully  across  him. 

Mr.  Tibbets  was  from  home  at  the  time  of  our  calling,  but  we 
were  received  with  hearty  and  homely  welcome  by  his  wife ;  a 
notable,  motherly  woman,  and  a  complete  pattern  for  wives; 
since,  according  to  Master  Simon's  account,  she  never  contra- 
dicts'honest  Jack,  and  yet  manages  to  have  her  own  way,  and 
to  control  him  in  every  thing. 

She  received  us  in  the  main  room  of  the  house,  a  kind  of 
parlour  and  hall,  with  great  brown  beams  of  timber  across  it, 
which  Mr.  Tibbets  is  apt  to  point  out  with,  some  exultation, 
observing,  that  they  don't  put  such  timber  in  houses  nowa- 
days. The  furniture  was  old-fashioned,  strong,  and  highly 
polished ;  the  walls  were  hung  with  coloured  prints  of  the  story 
of  the  Prodigal  Son,  who  was  represented  in  a  red  coat  and 
leather  breeches.  Over  the  fire-place  was  a  blunderbuss,  and 
a  hard-favoured  likeness  of  Ready-Money  Jack,  taken  when  he 
was  a  young  man,  by  the  same  artist  that  painted  the  tavern 
sign;  his  mother  having  taken  a  notion  that  the  Tibbets'  had 
as  much  right  to  have  a  gallery  of  family  portraits  as  the  folks 
at  the  Hall. 

The  good  dame  pressed  us  very  much  to  take  some  refresh- 
ment, and  tempted  us  with  a  variety  of  household  dainties,  so 
that  we  were  glad  to  compound  by  tasting  some  of  her  home- 
made wines.     While  we  were  there,  the  son  and  heir-apparent 


THE  FARMHOUSE.  67 

came  home ;  a  good-looking  young  fellow,  and  something  of  a 
rustic  beau.  He  took  us  over  the  premises,, and  showed  us  the 
whole  establishment.  An  air  of  homely  but  substantial  plenty 
prevailed  throughout ;  every  thing  was  of  the  best  materials, 
and  in  the  best  condition.  Nothing  was  out  of  place,  or  ill 
made;  and  you  saw  every  where  the  signs  of  a  man  that  took 
care  to  have  the  worth  of  his  money,  and  that  paid  as  he  went. 

The  farm-yard  was  well  stocked ;  under  a  shed  was  a  taxed 
cart,  in  trim  order,  in  which  Ready-Money  Jack  took  his  wife 
about  the  country.  His  well-fed  horse  neighed  from  the  stable, 
and  Avhen  led  out  into  the  yard,  to  use  the  words  of  young 
Jack,  "he  shone  like  a  bottle;"  for  he  said  the  old  man  made 
it  a  rule  that  every  thing  about  him  should  fare  as  well  as  he 
did  himself. 

I  was  pleased  to  see  the  pride  which  the  young  fellow  seemed 
to  have  of  his  father.  He  gave  us  several  particulars  concern- 
ing his  habits,  which  were  pretty  much  to  the  effect  of  those  I 
have  already  mentioned.  He  had  never  suffered  an  account  to 
stand  in  his  life,  always  providing  the  money  before  he  pur- 
chased any  thing ;  and,  if  possible,  paying  in  gold  and  silver. 
He  had  a  great  dislike  to  paper  money,  and  seldom  went  with- 
out a  considerable  sum  in  gold  about  him.  On  my  observing 
that  it  was  a  wonder  he  had  never  been  waylaid  and  robbed, 
the  young  fellow  smiled  at  the  idea  of  any  one  venturing  upon 
such  an  exploit,  for  I  believe  he  thinks  the. old  man  would  be  a 
match  for  Eobin  Hood  and  all  his  gang. 

I  have  noticed  that  Master  Simon  seldom  goes  into  any  house 
without  having  a  world  of  private  talk  with  some  one  or  other 
of  the  family,  being  a  kind  of  universal  counsellor  and  confi- 
dant. We  had  not  been  long  at  the  farm,  before  the  old  dame 
got  him  into  a  corner  of  her  parlour,  where  they  had  a  long, 
whispering  conference  together ;  in  which  I  saw,  by  his  shrugs, 
that  there  were  some  dubious  matters  discussed,  and  by  his 
nods  that  he  agreed  with  every  thing  she  said. 

After  we  had  come  out,  the  young  man  accompanied  us  a 
little  distance,  and  then,  drawing  Master  Simon  aside  into  a 
green  lane,  they  walked  and  talked  together  for  nearly  half  an 
hour.  Master  Simon,  who  has  the  usual  propensity  of  confi- 
dants to  blab  every  thing  to  the  next  friend  they  meet  with, 
let  me  know  that  there  was  a  love  affair  in  question ;  the  young 
fellow  having  been  smitten  with  the  charms  of  Phoebe  Wilkins, 
the  pretty  niece  of  the  housekeeper  at  the  Hall.  Like  most 
Other  love  concerns,  it  had  brought  its  troubles  and  perplexi- 


fi8  BRACEBHIDGE  HALL. 

ties.  Dame  Tibbets  had  long  been  m  intimate,  gossiping  terms 
with  the  housekeeper,  who  often  visited  the  farm-house;  but 
when  the  neighbours  spoke  to  her  of  the  likelihood  of  a  match 
between  her  son  and  Phoebe  Wilkins,  ,:  Marry  come  up!"  she 
scouted  the  very  idea.  The  girl  had  acted  as  lady's  maid ;  and 
it  was  beneath  the  blood  of  the  Tibbets',  who  had  lived  on  their 
own  lands  time  out  of  mind,  and  owed  reverence  and  thanks  to 
nobody,  to  have  the  heir-apparent  marry  a  servant ! 

These  vapourings  had  faithfully  been  carried  to  the  house- 
keeper's ear,  by  one  of  their  mutual  go-between  friends.  The 
old  housekeeper's  blood,  if  not  as  ancient,  was  as  quick  as  that 
of  Dame  Tibbets.  She  had  been  accustomed  to  carry  a  high 
head  at  the  Hall,  and  among  the  villagers;  and  her  faded 
brocade  rustled  with  indignation  at  the  slight  cast  upon  her 
alliance  by  the  wife  of  a  petty  farmer.  She  maintained  that 
her  niece  had  been  a  companion  rather  than  a  waiting-maid  to 
trie  young  ladies.  ' '  Thank  heavens,  she  was  not  obliged  to 
work  for  her  living-,  and  was  as  idle  as  any  young  lady  in  the 
Land ;  and  when  somebody  died,  would  receive  something  that 
would  be  worth  the  notice  of  some  folks,  with  all  their  ready 
mon 

A  bitter  feud  had  thus  taken  place  between  the  two  worthy 
dames,  and  the  young  people  were  forbidden  to  think  of  one 
another.  As  to  young  Jack,  he  was  too  much  in  love  to  reason 
upon  the  matter ;  and  being  a  little  heady,  and  not  standing  in 
much  awe  of  his  mother,  «was  ready  to  sacrifice  the  whole 
dignity  of  the  Tibbets'  to  his  passion.  He  had  lately,  however, 
had  a  violent  quarrel  with  Ins  mistress,  in  consequenc?  of  some 
coquetry  on  her  part,  and  at  present  stood  aloof.  The  politic 
mother  was  exerting  all  her  ingenuity  to  widen  the  accidental 
breach;  but,  as  is  most  commonly  the  case,  the  more  she  med- 
dled with  this  perverse  inclination  of  the  son,  the  stronger  it 
grew.  In  the  meantime,  old  Ready -Money  was  kept  completely 
in  the  dark ;  both  parties  were  in  awe  and  uncertainty  as  to 
what  might  be  his  way  of  taking  the  matter,  and  dreaded  to 
awaken  the  sleeping  Hon.  Between  father  and  son,  therefore, 
the  worthy  Mrs.  Tibbets  was  full  of  business,  and  at  her  wit's 
eDd.  It  is  true  there  was  no  great  danger  of  honest  Ready- 
Money's  finding  the  thing  out,  if  left  to  himself;  for  he  was  of 
a  most  unsuspicious  temper,  and  by  no  means  quick  of  appre- 
hension ;  but  there  was  daily  risk  of  his  attention  being  aroused, 
by  the  cobwebs  which  his  indefatigable  wife  was  continually 
spinning  about  his  nose. 


HORSEMANSHIP.  60 

Such  is  the  distracted  state  of  politics,  in  the  domestic  empire 
of  Ready-Money  Jack;  which  only  shows  the  intrigues  and 
internal  dangers  to  which  the  best-regulated  governments  are 
liable.  In  this  perplexed  situation  of  their  affairs,  both  mother 
and  son  have  applied  to  Master  Simon  for  counsel ;  and,  with 
all  his  experience  in  meddling  with  other  people's  concerns,  he 
finds  it  an  exceedingly  difficult  part  to  play,  to  agree  with  both 
parties,  seeing  that  their  opinions  and  wishes  are  so  diametri- 
cally opposite. 


HORSEMANSHIP. 

A  coach  was  a  strange  monster  in  those  days,  and  the  sight  pnt  both  horse  and 
man  into  amazement.  Some  said  it  was  a  great  crabshell  brought  out  of  China,  and 
some  imagined  it  to  be  one  of  the  pagan  temples,  in  which  the  canibals  adored  the 
divell.— Taylor,  the  Water  Poet. 

I  have  made  casual  mention,  more  than  once,  of  one  of  the 
Squire's  antiquated  retainers,  old  Christy,  the  huntsman.  I 
find  that  his  crabbed  humour  is  a  source  of  much  entertainment 
among  the  young  men  of  the  family ;  the  Oxonian,  particularly, 
takes  a  mischievous  pleasure,  now  and  then,  in  slyly  rubbing 
the  old  man  against  the  grain,  and  then  smoothing  him  down 
again ;  for  the  old  fellow  is  as  ready  to  bristle  up  his  back  as  a 
porcupine.  He  rides  a  venerable  hunter  called  Pepper,  winch 
is  a  counterpart  of  himself,  a  heady  cross-grained  animal,  that 
frets  the  flesh  off  its  bones ;  bites,  kicks,  and  plays  all  manner 
of  villainous  tricks.  He  is  as  tough,  and  nearly  as  old  as  his 
rider,  who  has  ridden  him  time  out  of  mind,  and  is,  indeed, 
the  only  ^ne  that  can  do  any  thing  with  him.  Sometimes, 
however,  they  have  a  complete  quarrel,  and  a  dispute  for 
mastery,  and  then,  I  am  told,  it  is  as  good  as  a  farce  to  see  the 
heat  they  both  get  into,  and  the  wrong-headed  contest  that 
ensues ;  for  they  are  quite  knowing  in  each  other's  ways,  and 
in  the  art  of  teasing  and  fretting  each  other.  Notwithstanding 
these  doughty  brawls,  however,  there  is  nothing  that  nettles 
old  Christy  sooner  than  to  question  the  merits  of  the  horse; 
which  he  upholds  as  tenaciously  as  a  faithful  husband  will 
vindicate  the  virtues  of  the  termagant  spouse,  that  gives  him  a 
curtain  lecture  every  night  of  his  life. 

The  young  men  call  old  Christy  their  "  professor  of  equita- 
tion ;"  and  in  accounting  for  the  appellation,  they  Jet  me  into 


?()  BRACEBRIDKE  HALL. 

some  particulars  of  the  Squire's  mode  of  bringing  up  his  chil- 
dren. There  is  an  odd  mixture  of  eccentricity  and  good  sense 
in  all  the  opinions  of  my  worthy  host.  His  mind  is  like  mod- 
ern Gothic,  where  plain  brick-work  is  set  off  with  pointed 
arches  and  quaint  tracery.  Though  the  main  ground- work  of 
his  opinions  is  correct,  yet  he  has  a  thousand  little  notions, 
picked  up  from  old  books,  which  stand  out  whimsically  on  the 
surface  of  his  mind. 

Thus,  in  educating  his  boys,  he  chose  Peachem,  Markam,  and 
such  like  old  English  writers,  for  his  manuals.  At  an  early 
age  he  took  the  lads  out  of  their  mother's  hands,  who  was  dis- 
posed, as  mothers  are  apt  to  be,  to  make  fine,  orderly  children 
of  them,  that  should  keep  cut  of  sun  and  rain  and  never  soil 
their  hands,  nor  tear  their  clothes. 

In  place  of  this,  the  Squire  turned  them  loose  to  run  free  and 
wild  about  the  park,  without  heeding  wind  or  weather.  He 
was.  also,  particularly  attentive  in  making  them  bold  and  ex- 
pert horsemen;  and  these  were  the  days  when  old  Christy, 
the  huntsman,  enjoyed  great  importance,  as  the  lads  were  put 
under  his  care  to  practise  them  at  the  leaping-bars,  and  to  keep 
an  eye  upon  them  in  the  chase. 

The  Squire  always  objected  to  their  riding  in  carriages  of  any 
kind,  and  is  still  a  little  tenacious  on  this  point.  He  often  raili 
against  the  universal  use  of  carriages,  and  quotes  the  words  oi 
honest  Nashe  to  that  effect.  "  It  was  thought,"  says  Nashe,  h 
his  Quatemio,  "  a  kind  of  solecism,  and  to  savour  of  effeminacy, 
for  a  young  gentleman  in  the  flourishing  time  of  his  age  to 
creep  into  a  coach,  and  to  shroud  himself  from  wind  and 
weather:  our  great  delight  was  to  outbrave  the  blustering 
Boreas  upon  a  great  horse ;  to  arm  and  prepare  ourselves  to  go 
with  Mars  and  Bellona  into  the  field,  was  our  sport  and  pas- 
time ;  coaches  and  caroches  we  left  unto  them  for  whom  they 
were  first  invented,  for  ladies  and  gentlemen,  and  decrepit  age 
and  impotent  people."' 

The  Squire  insists  that  the  English  gentlemen  have  lost  much . 
of  their  hardiness  and  manhood,  since  the  introduction  of  car- 
riages. ' '  Compare, "  he  will  say,  ' '  the  fine  gentleman  of  former 
times,  ever  on  horse  back, -booted  and  spurred,  and  travel- 
stained,  but  open,  frank,  manly,  and  chivalrous,  with  the  fine 
gentleman  of  the  present  day,  full  of  affectation  and  effeminacy, 
rolling  along  a  turnpike  in  his  voluptuous  vehicle.  The  young 
men  of  those  days  were  rendered  brave,  and  lofty,  and  gener- 
ous in  their  notions,  by  almost  living  in  their  saddles,  and  hav- 


UORSEMANSIIIP.  71 

ing  i heir  foaming  .steeds  '  like  proud  seas  under  them/  There 
is  something,"  he  adds.  "in  bestriding  a  fine  horse  that  makes 
a  man  feel  more  than  mortal.  He  seems  to  have  doubled  his 
nature,  and  to  have  added  to  his  own  courage  and  sagacity  the 
power,  the  speed,  and  stateliness  of  the  superb  animal  on  which 
lie  is  mounted.'' 

k'  It  is  a  great  delight,''  says  old  Nashe.  "  to  see  a  young  gen- 
tleman with  his  skill  and  cunning,  by  his  voice,  rod,  and  spur. 
better  to  manage  and  to  command  the  great  Bucephalus,  than 
the  strongest  Milo,  with  all  his  strength ;  one  while  to  see  him 
make  him  tread,  trot,  and  gallop  the  ring;  and  one  after  to 
see  him  make  him  gather  up  roundly;  to  bear  his  head  stead- 
ily: to  run  a  full  career  swiftly;  to  stop  a  sudden  lightly;  anon 
after  to  see  him  make  him  advance,  to  yerke,  to  go  back,  and 
sidelong,  to  turn  on  either  hand;  to  gallop  the  gallop  galliard; 
to  do  the  capriole,  the  chambetta.  and  dance  the  curvetty." 
.  In  conformity  to  these  ideas,  the  Squire  had  them  all  on 
horseback  at  an  early  age,  and  made  them  ride,  slapdash,  about 
the  country,  without  flinching  at  hedge,  or  ditch,  or  stone  wall, 
to  the  imminent  danger  of  their  necks. 

Even  the  fair  Julia  was  partially  included  in  tins  system ; 
and.  under  the  instructions  of  old  Christy,  has  become  one  of 
the  best  horsewomen  in  the  country.  The  Squire  says  it  is 
better  than  all  the  cosmetics  and  sweeteners  of  the  breath  that 
ever  were  invented.  He  extols  the  horsemanship  of  the  ladies 
in  former  times,  when  Queen  Elizabeth  would  scarcely  suffer 
the  rain  to  stop  her  accustomed  ride.  "  And  then  think,''  he 
will  say.  "what  nobler  and  sweeter  beings  it  made  them. 
What  a  difference  must  there  be,  both  in  mind  and  body,  be- 
tween a  joyous,  high-spirited  dame  of  those  days,  glowing  with 
health  and  exercise,  freshened  by  every  breeze  that  blows, 
seated  loftily  and  gracefully  on  her  saddle,  with  plume  on 
head,  and  hawk  on  hand,  and  her  descendant  of  the  present 
day.  the  pale  victim  of  routs  and  ball-'  link  languidly 

in  one  corner  of  an  enervating  carriage.' 

The  Squire's  equestrian  system  has  been  attended  with  great 
success;  for  his  sons,  having  passed  through  the  whole  course 
of  instruction  without  breaking  neck  or  limb,  are  now  health- 
ful, spirited,  and  active,  and  have  the  true  Englishman's  love 
for  a  horse.  If  their  manliness  and  frankness  are  praised  in 
their  father's  hearing,  he  quotes  the  old  Persian  maxim,  and 
says,  they  have  been  taught  "to  ride,  to  shoot,  and  to  speak 
1Jie  truth." 


72  BRACEDRIDCrE  HALL. 

It  is  true,  the  Oxonian  hab  now  and  then  practised  the  old 
gentleman's  doctrines  a  little  in  the  extreme.  He  is  a  gay 
youngster,  rather  fonder  of  his  horse  "than  his  book,  with  a  lit- 
tle dash  of  the  dandy ;  though  the  ladies  all  declare  that  he  is 
"the  flower  of  the  flock."  The  first  year  that  he  was  sent  to 
Oxford,  he  had  a  tutor  appointed  to  overlook  him,  a  dry  chip 
of  the  university.  When  he  returned  home  in  the  vacation,, 
the  Squire  made  many  inquiries  about  how  he  liked  his  college, 
his  studies,  and  his  tutor. 

"Oh,  as  to  my  tutor,  sir.  I've  parted  with  him  some  time 
since." 

"You  have!  and,  pray,  why  so?" 

"Oh,  sir,  hunting  was  all  the  go  at  our  college,  and  I  was  a 
little  short  of  funds;  so  T  discharged  my  tutor,  and  took  a 
horse,  you  know.'" 

"Ah,  I  was  not  aware  of  that,  Tom,"  said  the  Squire,  mildly. 

When  Tom  returned  to  college,  his  allowance  was  doubled,, 
that  he  might  be  enabled  to  keep  both  horse  and  tutor. 


LOVE  SYMPTOMS. 

I  will  now  begin  to  sigh,  read  poets,  look  pale,  go  neatly,  and  be  most  apparently 
in  love.— Marston. 

I  should  not  be  surprised,  if  we  should  have  another  pair  of 
turtles  at  the  Hall;  for  Master  Simon  has  informed  me,  in  great 
confidence,  that  he  suspects  the  general  of  some  design  upon 
the  susceptible  heart  of  Lady  Lillycraft.  I  have,  indeed,  no- 
ticed a  growing  attention  and  courtesy  in  the  veteran  towards 
her  ladyship ;  he  softens  very  much  in  her  company,  sits  by 
her  at  tabic,  and  entertains  her  with  long  stories  about  Sering- 
apatam,  and  pleasant  anecdotes  of  the  Mulligatawney  club. 
I  have  even  seen  him  present  her  with  a  full-blown  rose  from 
the  hot-house,  in  a  style  of  the  most  captivating  gallantry,  and 
it  was  accepted  with  great  suavity  and  graciousness ;  for  her 
ladyship  delights  in  receiving  the  homage  and  attention  of  the 
sex. 

Indeed,  the  general  was  one  of  the  earliest  admirers  that 
dangled  in  her  train,  during  her  short  reign  of  beauty;  and 
they  flirted  together  for  half  a  season  in  London,  some  thirty 
or  forty  years  since.     She  reminded  him  lately,  in  the  course 


LOVE  SYMPTOMS.  73 

Di  a  conversation  about  former  days,  of  the  time  when  he  used 
to  ride  a  white  horse,  and  to  canter  so  gallantly  by  the  side  of 
her  carriage  in  Hyde  Park ;  whereupon  I  have  remarked  that 
the  veteran  has  regularly  escorted  her  since,  when  she  rides 
out  on  horseback ;  and,  I  suspect,  he  almost  persuades  himself 
that  he  makes  as  captivating  an  appearance  as  in  his  youthful 
days. 

It  would  be  an  interesting  and  memorable  circumstance  in 
the  chronicles  of  Cupid,  if  this  spark  of  the  tender  passion,  after 
lying  dormant  for  such  a  length  of  time,  should  again  be  fanned 
into  a  flame,  from  amidst  the  ashes  of  two  burnt-out  hearts.  It 
would  be  an  instance  of  perdurable  fidelity,  worthy  of  being 
placed  beside  those  recorded  in  one  of  the  Squire's  favourite 
tomes,  commemorating  the  constancy  of  the  olden  times ;  in 
which  times,  we  are  told,  '"Men  and  wymmen  coulde  love 
togyders  seven  yeres,  and  no  licours  lustes  were  betwene  them, 
and  thenne  was  love,  trouthe,  and  feythf ulnes ;  and  lo  in  lyke 
wyse  was  used  love  in  King  Arthur's  dayes. "  * 

Still,  however,  this  may  be  nothing  but  a  little  venerable 
flirtation,  the  general  being  a  veteran  dangler,  and  the  good 
lady  habituated  to  these  kind  of  attentions.  Master  Simon,  on 
the  other  hand,  thinks  the  general  is  looking  about  him  with 
the  wary  eye  of  an  old  campaigner ;  and,  now  that  he  is  on  the 
wane,  is  desirous  of  getting  into  warm  winter-quarters.  Much 
allowance,  however,  must  be  made  for  Master  Simon's  uneasi- 
ness on  the  subject,  for  he  looks  on  Lady  Lillycraft's  house  as 
one  of  his  strongholds,  where  he  is  lord  of  the  ascendant ;  and, 
with  all  his  admiration  of  the  general,  I  much  doubt  whether 
he  would  like  to  see  him  lord  of  the  lady  and  the  establish- 
ment. 

There  are  certain  other  symptoms,  notwithstanding,  that  give 
an  air  of  probability  to  Master  Simon's  intimations.  Thu^ 
for  instance,  I  have  observed  that  the  general  has  been  very 
assiduous  in  his  attentions  to  her  ladyship's  dogs,  and  has 
several  times  exposed  his  fingers  to  imminent  jeopardy,  in  at 
tempting  to  pat  Beauty  on  the  head.  It  is  to  be  hoped  his 
advances  to  the  mistress  will  be  more  favourably  received,  as  all 
his  overtures  towards  a  caress  are  greeted  by  the  pestilent  little 
cur  with  a  wary  kindling  of  the  eye,  and  a  most  venomous 
growl. 

He  has,  moreover,  been  very  complaisant  towards  my  lady's 


Morte  d'Arthur. 


74  BRACEBRIBQE  HALL. 

gentlewomen,  the  immaculate  Mrs.  Hannah,  whom  he  used  to 
speak  of  in  a  way  that  I  do  not  choose  to  mention.  Whether 
she  has  the  same  suspicions  with  Master  Simon  or  not,  I  cannot 
say ;  but  she  receives  his  civilities  with  no  better  grace  than  the 
implacable  Beauty;  unscrewing  her  mouth  into  a  most  acid 
smile,  and  looking  as  though  she  could  bite  a  piece  out  of  him. 
In  short,  the  poor  general  seems  to  have  as  formidable  foes  to 
contend  with,  as  a  hero  of  ancient  fairy  tale;  who  had  to  fight 
his  way  to  his  enchanted  princess  through  ferocious  monsters 
of  every  kind,  and  to  encounter  the  brimstone  terrors  of  some 
fiery  dragon. 

There  is  still  another  circumstance,  which  inclines  me  to  give 
very  considerable  credit  to  Master  Simon's  suspicions.  Lady 
Lillycraft  is  very  fond  of  quoting  poetry,  and  the  conversation 
often  turns  upon  it.  on  which  occasions  the  general  is  thrown 
completely  out.  It  happened  the  other  day  that  Spenser's 
Fairy  Queen  was  the  theme  for  the  greater  part  of  the  morn- 
ing, and  the  poor  general  sat  perfectly  silent.  I  found  him  not 
long  after  in  the  library,  with  spectacles  on  nose,  a  book  in  his 
hand,  and  fast  asleep.  On  my  approach,  he  awoke,  slipt  the 
spectacles  into  his  pocket,  and  began  to  read  very  attentively. 
After  a  little  while  he  put  a  paper  in  the  place,  and  laid  the 
volume  aside,  which  I  perceived  was  the  Fairy  Queen.  I  have 
had  the  curiosity  to  watch  how  he  got  on  in  his  poetical  studies ; 
but  though  I  have  repeatedly  seen  him  with  the  book  in  his 
hand,  yet  I  find  the  paper  has  not  advanced  above  three  or  j 
four  pages ;  the  general  being  extremely  apt  to  fall  asleep  when 
he  reads. 


FALCONKY. 

Ne  is  there  hawk  which  inantlHh  on  her  perch, 

Whether  high  tow'ring  or  accousting  low, 
But  I  the  measure  of  her  flight  doe  search. 

And  all  her  prey  and  ail  her  diet  know.— Spenser. 

There  are  several  grand  sources  of  lamentation  furnished  to 
the  worthy  Squire,  by  the  improvement  of  society  and  the 
grievous  advancement  of  knowledge;  among  which  there  is 
none,  I  believe,  that  causes  him  more  frequent  regret  than  the 
unfortunate  invention  of  gunpowder.  To  this  he  continually 
traces  the  decay  of  some  favourite  custom,  and,  indeed,  the 


FALCONRY,  7f> 

general  downfall  of  all  chivalrous  and  romantic  usages.  "  Eng- 
lish soldiers,*"  he  says,  "have  never  been  the  men  they  were  in 
the  days  of  the  cross-bow  and  the  long-bow;  when  they  de- 
pended upon  the  strength  of  the  arm,  and  the  English  archer 
could  draw  a  cloth-yard  shaft  to  the  head.  These  were  the 
times  when,  at  the  battles  of  Cressy,  Poictiers,  and  Agincourt, 
the  French  chivalry  was  completely  destroyed  by  the  bowmen 
of  England.  The  yeomanry,  too.  have  never  been  what  they 
were,  when,  in  times  of  peace,  they  were  constantly  exercised 
with  the  bow,  and  archery  was  a  favourite  holiday  pastime." 

Among  the  other  evils  which  have  followed  in  the  train  of 
this  fatal  invention  of  gunpowder,  the  Squire  classes  the  total 
decline  of  the  noble  art  of  falconry.  ' '  Shooting, "  he  says,  ' '  is 
a  skulking,  treacherous,  solitary  sport,  in  comparison;  but 
hawking  was  a  gallant,  open,  sunshiny  recreation;  it  was  the 
generous  sport  of  hunting  carried  into  the  skies.1' 

' '  It  was,  moreover, "  he  says,  ' '  according  to  Braithwate,  the 
stately  amusement  of  '  high  and  mounting  spirits ; '  for  as  the 
old  Welsh  proverb  affirms  in  those  times,  '  you  might  know  a 
gentleman  by  his  hawk,  horse,  and  grayhound.'  Indeed,  a 
cavalier  was  seldom  seen  abroad  without  his  hawk  on  his  fist ; 
and  even  a  lady  of  rank  did  not  think  herself  completely 
equipped,  in  riding  forth,  unless  she  had  a  tassel-gentel  held  by 
jesses  on  her  delicate  hand.  It  was  thought  in  those  excellent 
days,  according  to  an  old  writer,  'quite  sufficient  for  noble- 
men to  winde  their  horn,  and  to  carry  their  hawke  fair;  and 
leave  study  and  learning  to  the  children  of  mean  people.'  " 

Knowing  the  good  Squire's  hobby,  therefore,  I  have  not  been 
surprised  at  finding  that,  among  the  various  recreations  Oj.  for- 
mer times  which  he  lias  endeavoured  to  re\  ive  in  the  little  v,  jrld 
in  which  he  rules,  he  has  bestowed  great  attention  on  the  noble 
art  of  falconry.  In  this  he.  of  course,  has  been  seconded  by  bis 
indefatigable  coadjutor,  Master  Simon;  and  even  the  pardon 
has  thrown  considerable  light  on  their  labours,  by  various  hints 
on  the  subject,  which  he  has  met  with  in  old  English  works. 
As  to  the  precious  work  of  that  famous  dame,  Juliana  Barnes; 
the  Gentleman's  Academie,  by  Markham;  and  the  other  well* 
known  treatises  that  were  the  manuals  of  ancient  sportsmen, 
they  have  them  at  their  fingers'  ends;  but  they  have  more 
especially  studied  some  old  tapestry  in  the  house,  whereon  is 
represented  a  party  of  cavaliers  and  stately  dames,  with  doub- 
lets, caps,  and  flaunting  feathers,  mounted  on  horse,  with 
attendants  on  foot,  all  in  animated  pursuit  of  the  game. 


76  BRACEBUWGE  HALL. 

The  Squire  has  discountenanced  the  killing  of  any  hawks  in 
his  neighbourhood,  but  gives  a  liberal  bounty  for  all  that  ore 
brought  him  alive ;  so  that  the  Hall  is  well  stocked  with  all 
kinds  of  birds  of  prey.  On  these  he  and  Master  Simon  have 
exhausted  their  patience  and  ingenuity,  endeavouring  to  "re- 
claim''  them,  as  it  is  termed,  and  to  train  them  up  for  the  sport ; 
but  they  have  met  with  continual  checks  and  disappointments. 
Their  feathered  school  has  turned  out  the  most  untractable  and 
graceless  scholars :  nor  is  it  the  least  of  their  trouble  to  drill 
the  retainers  who  were  to  act  as  ushers  under  them,  and  to 
take  immediate  charge  of  these  refractory  birds.  Old  Christy 
and  the  gamekeeper  both,  for  a  thne,  set  their  faces  against 
the  whole  plan  of  education ;  Christy  having  been  nettled  at 
hearing  what  he  terms  a  wild-goose  chase  put  on  a  par  with  a 
fox-hunt ;  and  the  gamekeeper  having  always  been  accustomed 
to  look  upon  hawks  as  arrant  poachers,  which  it  was  his  duty 
to  shoot  down,  and  nail,  in  terrorem,  against  the  out-houses. 

Christy  has  at  length  taken  the  matter  in  hand,  but  has  done 
still  more  mischief  by  his  intermeddling.  He  is  as  positive  and 
wrong-headed  about  this,  as  he  is  about  hunting.  Master 
Simon  has  continual  disputes  with  him,  as  to  feeding  and 
training  the  hawks.  He  reads  to  him  long  passages  from  the 
old  authors  I  have  mentioned ;  but  Christy,  who  cannot  read, 
has  a  sovereign  contempt  for  all  book-knowledge,  and  persist 
in  treating  the  hawks  according  to  his  own  notions,  which  arc 
drawn  from  his  experience,  in  younger  days,  in  the  rearing  oi 
game-cocks. 

The  consequence  is,  that,  between  these  jarring  systems,  th( 
poor  birds  have  had  a  most  trying  and  unhappy  time  of  it. 
Many  have  fallen  victims  to  Christy's  feeding  and  Master 
Simon's  physicking ;  for  the  latter  has  gone  to  work  secundum 
artem,  and  has  given  them  all  the  vomitings  and  scourings  laid 
down  in  the  books ;  never  were  poor  hawks  so  fed  and  phy- 
sicked before.  Others  have  been  lost  by  being  but  half  "  re- 1 
claimed,"  or  tamed;  for  on  baing  taken  into  the  field,  they; 
have  " raked"  after  the  game  quite  out  of  hearing  of  the  call, 
and  never  returned  to  school. 

All  these  disappointments  had  been  petty,  yet  sore  grievances 
to  the  Squire,  and  had  made  him  to  despond  about  success. 
He  has  lately,  however,  been  made  happy  by  the  receipt  of  a 
fine  "Welsh  falcon,  which  Master  Simon  terms  a  stately  high- 
flyer. It  is  a  present  from  the  Squire's  friend, .  Sir  Watkyn 
Williams  Wynne;   and  is,  no  doubt,  a  descendant  of  some 


FALCONRY.  77 

ancient  line  of  Welsh  princes  of  the  air,  that  have  long  lorded 
it  over  their  kingdom  of  clouds,  from  Wynnstay  to  the  very 
summit  of  Snowden,  or  the  brow  of  Penmanmawr. 

Ever  since  the  Squire  received  this  invaluable  present,  he 
has  been  as  impatient  to  sally  forth  and  make  proof  of  it,  as 
was  Don  Quixote  to  assay  his  suit  of  armour.  There  have  been 
some  demurs  as  to  whether  the  bird  was  in  proper  health  and 
training;  but  these  have  been  overruled  by  the  vehement 
desire  to  play  with  a  new  toy ;  and  it  has  been  determined, 
right  or  wrong,  in  season  or  out  of  season,  to  have  a  day's 
sport  in  hawking  to-morrow. 

The  Hall,  as  usual,  whenever  the  Squire  is  about  to  make 
some  new  sally  on  his  hobby,  is  all  agog  with  the  thing.  Miss 
Templeton,  who  is  brought  up  in  reverence  for  all  her  guardi- 
an's humours,  has  proposed  to  be  of  the  party ;  and  Lady  Lilly- 
craft  has  talked  also  of  riding  out  to  the  scene  of  action  and 
looking  on.  This  has  gratified  the  old  gentleman  extremely ; 
he  hails  it  as  an  auspicious  omen  of  the  revival  of  falconry,  and 
does  not  despair  but  the  time  will  come  when  it  will  be  again 
the  pride  of  a  fine  lady  to  carry  about  a  noble  falcon,  in 
preference  to  a  parrot  or  a  lap-dog. 

I  have  amused  myself  with  the  bustling  preparations  of  that 
busy  spirit,  Master  Simon,  and  the  continual  thwartings  he 
receives  from  that  genuine  son  of  a  pepper-box,  old  Christy. 
They  have  had  half-a-dozen  consultations  about  how  the  hawk 
is  to  be  prepared  for  the  morning's  sport.  Old  Nimrod,  as 
usual,  has  always  got  in  a  pet,  upon  which  Master  Simon  has 
invariably  given  up  the  point,  observing,  in  a  good-humoured 
tone,  "Well,  well,  have  it  your  own  way,  Christy;  only  don't 
put  yourself  in  a  passion ;"  a  reply  which  always  nettles  the 
old  man  ten  times  more  than  ever. 


78  BRACEBBIDGE  HALL. 


HAWKING. 

The  soaring  hawk,  from  fist  that  flies, 

Her  falconer  « I  < » 1 1 1  constrain 
Some  times  to  range  the  ground  about 

To  And  her  out  again; 
Ami  if  by  sighl  or  sound  of  bell, 

His  falcon  he  may  see, 
Wo  ho]  h<'  cries,  with  cheerful  voice— 

The  gladdest  man  is  he.— Handful  of  Pleasant  Defiles. 

At  an  early  hour  this  morning,  the  Hall  was  in  a  bustle  pre- 
paring for  the  sport  of  the  day.  I  heard  Master  Simon  whis- 
tling and  singing  under  my  window  at  sunrise,  as  he  was  pre- 
paring the  jesses  for  the  hawk's  legs,  and  could  distinguish 
now  and  then  a  stanza  of  one  of  his  favourite  old  ditties : 

'■  in  peascod  time,  when  hound  to  horn 
« Jives  note  that  buck  he  kill'd; 
And  little  boy,  with  pipe  of  corn, 
I«  tending  sheep  a-field,"  &c. 

A  hearty  breakfast,  well  flanked  by  cold  meats,  was  served 
up  in  the  great  hall.  The  whole  garrison  of  retainers  and 
hangers-on  were  in  motion,  re-enforced  by  volunteer  idlers 
from  the  village.  The  horses  were  led  up  and  down  before  the 
door ;  every  body  had  something  to  say,  and  something  to  do, 
and  hurried  hither  and  thither ;  there  was  a  direful  yelping  of 
dogs ;  some  that  were  to  accompany  us  being  eager  to  set  off, 
and  others  that  were  to  stay  at  home  being  whipped  back  t( 
their  kennels.  In  short,  for  once,  the  good  Squire's  mansioi 
might  have  been  taken  as  a  good  specimen  of  one  of  the  ranti- 
pole  establishments  of  the  good  old  feudal  times. 

Breakfast  being  finished,  the  chivalry  of  the  Hall  preparet 
to  take  the  field.  The  fair  Julia  was  of  the  party,  in  a  hunting- 
dress,  with  a  light  plume  of  feathers  in  her  riding-hat.  As  she 
mounted  her  favourite  galloway,  I  remarked,  with  pleasure, 
that  old  Christy  forgot  his  usual  crustiness,  and  hastened  t( 
adjust  her  saddle  and  bridle.  He  touched  his  cap,  as  she  smiled 
on  him,  and  thanked  him;  and  then,  looking  round  at  the 
other  attendants,  gave  a  knowing  nod  of  his  head,  in  which  I 
read  pride  and  exultation  at  the  charming  appearance  of  his 
pupil. 

Lady  Lilly  craft  had  likewise  determined  to  witness  the  sport. 
She  was  dressed  in  her  broad  white  beaver,  tied  under  the  cliin. 


HA  WKING.  79 

and  a  riding-habit  of  the  last  century.  She  rode  her  sleek, 
ambling  pony,  whose  motion  was  as  easy  as  a  rocking-chair ; 
and  was  gallantly  escorted  by  the  general,  who  looked  not 
unlike  one  of  the  doughty  heroes  in  the  old  prints  of  the  battle 
of  Blenheim.  The  parson,  likewise,  accompanied  her  on  the 
other  side;  for  tins  was  a  learned  amusement,  in  which  he 
took  great  interest ;  and,  indeed,  had  given  much  counsel,  from 
his  knowledge  of  old  customs. 

At  length  every  thing  was  arranged,  and  off  we  set  from  the 
Hall.  The  exercise  on  horseback  puts  one  in  fine  spirits  •  and 
the  scene  was  gay  and  animating.  The  young  men  of  the  fam- 
ily accompanied  Miss  Templeton.  She  sat  lightly  and  grace- 
fully in  her  saddle,  her  plumes  dancing  and  waving  in  the  air ; 
and  the  group  had  a  charming  effect,  as  they  appeared  and  dis- 
appeared among  the  trees,  cantering  along,  with  the  bounding 
animation  of  youth.  The  Squire  and  Master  Simon  rode  to- 
gether, accompanied  by  old  Christy,  mounted  on  Pepper.  The 
latter  bore  the  hawk  on  his  fist,  as  he  insisted  the  bird  was 
most  accustomed  to  him.  There  was  a  rabble  rout  on  foot, 
composed  of  retainers  from  the  Hall,  and  some  idlers  from  the 
village,  with  two  or  three  spaniels,  for  the  purpose  of  starting 
the  game. 

A  kind  of  corps  de  reserve  came  on  quietly  in  the  rear,  com- 
posed of  Lady  Lillycraft,  General  Harbottle,  the  parson,  and  a 
fat  footman.  Her  ladyship  ambled  gently  along  on  her  pony, 
while  the  general,  mounted  on  a  tall  hunter,  looked  down  upon 
her  with  an  air  of  the  most  protecting  gallantry. 

For  my  part,  being  no  sportsman,  I  kept  with  this  last  party, 
or  rather  lagged  behind,  that  I  might  take  in  the  whole  pic- 
ture; and  the  parson  occasionally  slackened  his  pace,  and 
jogged  on  in  company  with  me. 

The  sport  led  us  at  some  distance  from  the  Hall,  in  a  soft 
meadow,  reeking  with  the  moist  verdure  of  spring.  A  little 
river  ran  through  it,  bordered  by  willows,  which  had  put  forth 
their  tender  early  foliage.  The  sportsmen  were  in  quest  of 
herons,  winch  were  said  to  keep  about  this  stream. 

There  was  some  disputing,  already,  among  the  leaders  of  the 
sport.  The  Squire,  Master  Simon,  and  old  Christy,  came  every 
now  and  then  to  a  pause,  to  consult  together,  like  the  field  offi- 
cers in  an  army ;  and  I  saw,  by  certain  motions  of  the  head, 
that  Christy  was  as  positive  as  any  old  wrong-headed  German 
commander. 

As  we  were  prancing  up  this  quiet  meadow,  every  sound  we 


So  BRACEBRIDGE  BALL. 

made  was  answered  by  a  distinct  echo,  from  the  sunny  wall  of 
an  old  building,  that  lay  on  the  opposite  margin  of  the 
stream ;  and  I  paused  to  listen  to  this  "spirit  of  a  sound,"  which 
seems  to  love  such  quiet  and  beautiful  places.  The  parson  in- 
formed me  that  this  was  the  ruin  of  an  ancient  grange,  and 
was  supposed,  by  the  country  people,  to  be  haunted  by  a  dob- 
bie,  a  kind  of  rural  sprite,  something  like  Robin-good-fellow. 
They  often  fancied  the  echo  to  be  the  voice  of  the  dobbie 
answering  them,  and  were  rather  shy  of  disturbing  it  after 
dark.  He  added,  that  the  Squire  was  very  careful  of  this  ruin, 
on  account  of  the  superstition  connected  with  it.  As  I  con- 
sidered this  local  habitation  of  an ! '  airy  nothing, "  I  called  to  mind 
the  fine  description  of  an  echo  in  Webster's  Duchess  of  Malfry : 

"  Yond  side  o'  th'  river  lies  a  wall, 

Piece  of  a  cloister,  which,  iu  my  opinion, 
Gives  the  best  echo  that  you  ever  heard: 
So  plain  in  the  distinction  of  our  words, 
That  main-  have  supposed  it  a  spirit 
That  answers." 

The  parson  went  on  to  comment  on  a  pleasing  and  fanci 
appellation  which  the  Jews  of  old  gave  to  the  echo,  which  the] 
called  Bath-kool,  that  is  to  say,  "the  daughter  of  the  voice;" 
they  considered  it  an  oracle,  supplying  in  the  second  temple 
the  want  of  the  urim  and  thummim,  with  which  the  first  wz 
honoured.*    The  little  man  was  just  entering  very  largely  anc 
learnedly  upon  the  subject,  when  we  were  startled  by  a  prodi- 
gious bawling,   shouting,   and  yelping.      A  flight  of   crows, 
alarmed  by  the  approach  of  our  forces,  had  suddenly  risen 
from  a  meadow;  a  cry  was  put  up  by  the  rabble  rout  on  foot. 
— "Now,  Christy!  now  is  your  time,   Christy  I"    The  Squire 
and  Master  Simon,  who  were  beating  up  the  river  banks  in 
quest  of  a  heron,  called  out  eagerly  to  Christy  to  keep  quiet; 
the  old  man,  vexed  and  bewildered  by  the  confusion  of  voices, 
completely  lost  his  head ;  in  his  flurry  he  slipped  off  the  hood,  I 
cast  off  the  falcon,  and  away  flew  the  crows,  and  away  soared 
the  hawk. 

I  had  paused  on  a  rising  ground,  close  to  Lady  Lilly  craft  and 
her  escort,  from  whence  I  had  a  good  view  of  the  sport.  I  was 
pleased  with  the  appearance  of  the  party  in  the  meadow,  rid- 
ing along  in  the  direction  that  the  bird  flew ;  their  bright  beam- 
ing faces  turned  up  to  the  bright  skies  as  they  watched  the 

*  Bekker's  Monde  enchants. 


HAWKING. 

game ;  the  attendants  on  foot  scampering  along,  looking  up,  and 
calling  out ;  and  the  dogs  bounding  and  yelping  with  clamorous 
sympathy. 

The  hawk  had  singled  out  a  quarry  from  among  the  carrion 
crew.  It  was  curious  to  see  the  efforts  of  the  two  birds  to  set 
above  e^ch  other;  one  to  make  the  fatal  swoop,  the  o'hcr  to 
avoid  it-  Now  they  crossed  athwart  a  bright  feathery  cloud, 
and  now  they  were  against  the  clear  blue  sky.  I  confess,  be- 
ing no  sportsman,  I  was  more  interested  for  the  poor  bird  that 
was  striving  for  its  life,  than  for  the  hawk  that  was  playing 
the  part  of  a  mercenary  soldier.  At  length  the  hawk  got  the 
upper  band,  and  made  a  rushing  stoop  at  her  quarry,  but  the 
latter  made  as  sudden  a  surge  downwards,  and  slanting  up 
again,  evaded  the  blow,  screaming  and  making  the  best  of  his 
way  for  a  dry  tree  on  the  brow  of  a  neighbouring  hill ;  while  the 
hawk,  disappointed  of  her  blow,  soared  up  again  into  the  air, 
and  appeared  to  be  "  raking"  off.  It  was  in  vain  old  Christy 
called,  and  whistled,  and  endeavoured  to  lure  her  down :  she 
paid  no  regard  to  him;  and,  indeed,  his  calls  were  drowned  in 
the  shouts  and  yelps  of  the  army  of  militia  that  had  followed 
him  into  the  field. 

Just  then  an  exclamation  from  Lady  Lillycraft  made  me 
turn  my  head.  I  beheld  a  complete  confusion  among  the 
sportsmen  in  the  little  vale  below  us.  They  were  galloping 
and  running  towards  the  edge  of  a  bank ;  and  I  was  shocked  to 
see  Miss  Tempi eton's  horse  galloping  at  large  without  his  rider. 
I  rode  to  the  place  to  which  the  others  were  hurrying,  and 
when  I  reached  the  bank,  which  almost  overhung  the  stream, 
I  saw  at  the  foot  of  it,  the  fair  Julia,  pale,  bleeding,  and  appar- 
ently lifeless,  supported  in  the  arms  of  her  frantic  lover. 

In  galloping  heedlessly  along,  with  her  eyes  turned  upward, 
she  had  unwarily  approached  too  near  the  bank;  it  had  given 
way  with  her,  and  she  and  her  horse  had  been  precipitated  to 
the  pebbled  margin  of  the  river. 

I  never  saw  greater  consternation.  The  captain  was  dis- 
tracted: Lady  Lillycraft  fainting;  the  Squire  in  dismay,  and 
Master  Simon  at  his  wit's  end.  The  beautiful  creature  at  length 
showed  signs  of  returning  life;  she  opened  her  eyes;  looked 
around  her  upon  the  anxious  group,  and  comprehending  in  a 
moment  the  nature  of  the  scene,  gave  a  sweet  smile,  and  put- 
ting her  hand  in  her  lover's,  exclaimed,  feebly,  ' '  I  am  not  much 
hurt.  Guy  1"  I  could  have  taken  her  to  my  heart  for  that  sin- 
gle exclamation. 


g2  BRAVEBRWGE  HALL. 

It  was  found,  indeed,  that  she  had  escaped  almost  miracu- 
lously with  a  contusion  on  the  head,  a  sprained  anke,  and 
some  si  St  bruises.  After  her  wound  was  stanched  she  was 
Xn  to  a  neighbouring  cottage,  until  a  carriage  could  be  sum- 
med to  co  fvcv  her  homeland  when  this  had  arrived,  the 
Secede  which"  had  issued  forth  so  gayly  on  this  enterprise, 
returned  rtowly  and  pensively  to  the  Hall.  Lfl. 

I  h  d  been  charmed  by  the  generous  spirit  shown  by  tins 
voung  creature,  who,  amidst  pain  and  danger,  had  been  anxious 
oS  relieve  the  distress  of  those  around  her  I  was ;  grati- 
fied therefore  by  the  universal  concern  displayed  by  the 
domesticstnV  return.  They  came  «gft*«3 
.„„„„  each  eager  to  render  assistance.  The  butler  stood 
Wy  with  some  c„ri,,usly  delicate  cordial ;  the  old  housekeeper 
was  Prodded  with  half-a-dozen  nostrums,  prepared  by  her  own 
tends  according  to  the  family  receipt-book ;  while  her  niece 
iLf  meHuag^cebe,  having  no  other  way  of  assisting,  stood 
wHnHne  her  hands,  and  weeping  aloud. 

tSo ^material  effect  that  is  likely  to  follow  his  accident, 

is  a  Postponement  of  the  nuptials,  ^T^^tSS 

Though  I  commiserate  the  impatience  ot  the ,  capfaun  on  tha 

4-  .r^f  t  «hill  not  otherwise  be  sorry  at  the  delay,  as  u> 

Xgtyme  Vbeltertp^rtunityof  studying  the  characters 

here  Assembled,  with  which  I  grow  more  and  more  entertained. 

I  cannot  but  perceive  that  the  worthy  Squire  is  quite  d  scorn 

oerted  at  the  unlucky  result  of  his  hawking  experiment  and 

to  unfortuna tedlustration  of  his  eulogy  on  female  equitation 

Old  Christy  too  is  very  waspish,  having  been  sorely  twitted 

by'Masteflimon  for  having  let  his  hawk  * >* «~J| 

to  the  falcon,  in  the  confusion  occasioned  by  the  fair  Julia 

toastei     he  bird  was  totally  forgotten    I  make  no  doubt  she 

nS  made  the  best  of  her  way  back  to  the  hospitably ,  Hall  of  S n 

Watkvn  Williams  Wynne;   and   may  very  possibly,  at  tni 

JeseS  writing,  be  pluming  her  wings   among  the   breezv 

bowers  of  Wynnstay. 


ST.    MARK'S  EVE.  83 


ST.  MAEK'S  EVE. 

O  't  is  a  fearful  thing  to  be  no  more. 

Or  if  to  be.  to  wander  after  death! 

To  walk  as  spirits  do,  in  brakes  all  day, 

Aii'1    when  the  darkness  comes,  to  glide  in  paths 

That  lead  to  graves;  and  in  the  silent  vault, 

"Where  lies  your  own  pale  shroud,  to  hover  o'er  it, 

Striving  to  enter  your  forbidden  corpse.—  Dryden. 

The  conversation  this  evening  at  the  supper-table  took  a 
curious  turn,  on  the  subject  of  a  superstition,  formerly  very 
prevalent  in  this  part  of  the  country,  relative  to  the  present 
night  of  the  year,  which  is  the  Eve  of  St.  Mark's.  It  was  be- 
lieved, the  parson  informed  us,  that  if  any  one  would  watch  in 
the  church  porch  on  this  eve,  for  three  successive  years,  from 
eleven  to  one  o'clock  at  night,  he  would  see,  on  the  third  year, 
the  shades  of  those  of  the  parish  who  were  to  die  in  the  course 
of  the  year,  pass  by  him  into  church,  clad  in  their  usual  ap- 
parel. 

Dismal  as  such  a  sight  would  be,  he  assured  us  that  it  was 
formerly  a  frequent  thing  for  persons  to  make  the  necessary 
vigils.  He  had  known  more  than  one  instance  in  his  time. 
One  old  woman,  who  pretended  to  have  seen  this  phantom  pro- 
cession, was  an  object  of  great  awe  for  the  whole  year  after- 
wards, and  caused  much  uneasiness  and  mischief.  If  she  shook 
her  head  mysteriously  at  a  person,  it  was  like  a  death-warrant ; 
and  she  had  nearly  caused  the  death  of  a  sick  person,  by  look- 
ing ruefully  in  at  the  window. 

There  was  also  an  old  man,  not  many  years  since,  of  a  sullen, 
melancholy  temperament,  who  had  kept  two  vigils,  and  began 
to  excite  some  talk  in  the  village,  when,  fortunately  for  the 
public  comfort,  he  died  shortly  after  his  third  watching;  very 
probably  from  a  cold  that  he  had  taken,  as  the  night  was  tem- 
pestuous. It  was  reported  about  the  village,  however,  that  he 
had  seen  his  own  phantom  pass  by  him  into  the  church. 

This  led  to  the  mention  of  another  superstition  of  an  equally 
strange  and  melancholy  kind,  which,  however,  is  chiefly  con- 
fined to  Wales.  It  is  respecting  what  are  called  corpse-candles, 
little  wandering  fires,  of  a  pale  bluish  light,  that  move  about 
like  tapers  in  the  open  ah ,  and  are  supposed  to  designate  the 
way  some  corpse  is  to  go.  One  was  seen  at  Lanyler.  late  ;it 
night,  hovering  up  and  down,  along  the  bank  of  the  Istwitb, 


84  BRAOEBUIDGE  HALL. 

and  was  watched  by  the  neighbours  until  they  were  tired,  and 
went  to  bed.  Not  long  afterwards  there  came  a  comely  coun- 
try lass,  from  Montgomeryshire,-  to  see  her  friends,  who  dwelt 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  river.  She  thought  to  ford  the 
stream  at  the  very  place  where  the  light  had  been  first  seen, 
but  was  dissuaded  on  account  of  the  height  of  the  flood.  She 
walked  to  and  fro  along  the  bank,  just  where  the  candle  had 
moved,  waiting  for  the  subsiding  of  the  water.  She  at  length 
endeavored  to  cross,  but  the  poor  girl  was  drowned  in  th© 
attempt.* 

There  was  something  mournful  in  this  little  anecdote  of  rural 
superstition,  that  seemed  to  affect  all  the  listeners.  Indeed,  ii 
is  curious  to  remark  how  completely  a  conversation  of  the  kind 
will  absorb  the  attention  of  a  circle,  and  sober  dowm  its  gayety, 
however  boisterous.  By  degrees  I  noticed  that  every  one  was 
leaning  forward  over  the  table,  with  eyes  earnestly  fixed  upon 
the  parson;  and  at  the  mention  of  corpse-candles  which  had 
been  seen  about  the  chamber  of  a  young  lady  who  died  on  the 
eve  of  her  wedding-day,  Lady  Lillycraft  turned  pale. 

I  have  witnessed  the  introduction  of  stories  of  the  kind  into 
various  evening  circles ;  they  were  often  commenced  in  jest, 
and  listened  to  with  smiles:  but  I  never  knew  the  most  gay  or 
the  most  enlightened  of  audiences,  that  were  not,  if  the  con- 
versation continued  for  any  length  of  time,  completely  and 
solemnly  interested  in  it.  There  is,  I  believe,  a  degree  of  super- 
stition  lurking  in  every  mind;  and  I  doubt  if  any  one  can 
thoroughly  examine  all  his  secret  notions  and  impulses,  with- 
out detecting  it,  hidden,  perhaps,  even  from  himself.  It  seems, 
in  fact,  to  be  a  part  of  our  nature,  like  instinct  in  animals, 
acting  independently  of  our  reason.  It  is  often  found  existing 
in  lofty  natures,  especially  those  that  are  poetical  and  aspiring. 
A  great  and  extraordinary  poet  of  our  day,  whose  life  and 
writings  evince  a  mind  subject  to  powerful  exaltations,  is  said 
to  believe  in  omens  and  secret  intimations.  Caesar,  it  is  well 
known,  was  greatly  under  the  influence  of  such  belief;  and 
Napoleon  had  his  good  and  evil  days,  and  his  presiding  star. 

As  to  the  worthy  parson,  I  have  no  doubt  that  he  is  strongly 
inclined  to  superstition.  He  is  naturally  credulous,  and  passes 
so  much  of  his  time  searching  out  popular  traditions  and  super* 
natural  tales,  that  his  mind  has  probably  become  infected  by 
them.     Ke  has  lately  been  immersed  in  the  Demonolatria  of 


*  Aubrey'.;  Miscel 


8T.    MARK'S  EVE.  85 

Nicholas  Remigus,  concerning  supernatural  occurrences  in  Lor- 
raine, and  the  writings  of  Joachhnus  Camerius,  called  by  Vos 
sins  the  Phoenix  of  Germany;  and  he  entertains  the  ladies  with 
stories  from  them,  that  make  them  almost  afraid  lo  go  to  bed 
at  night.  I  have  been  charmed  myself  with  some  of  the  wild 
little  superstitions  which  he  has  adduced  from  Blefkenius, 
Scheffer.  and  others,  such  as  those  of  the  Laplanders  about  the 
domestic  spirits  which  wake  them  at  night,  and  summon  them 
to  go  and  fish ;  of  Thor,  the  deity  of  thunder,  who  has  power  of 
life  and  death,  health  and  sickness,  and  who,  armed  with  the 
rair.  bow,  shoots  his  arrows  at  those  evil  demons  that  live  on 
the  tops  of  rocks  and  mountains,  and  infest  the  lakes ;  of  the 
Juhles  or  Juhlafolket,  vagrant  troops  of  spirits,  which  roam 
the  air,  and  wander  up  and  down  by  forests  and  mountains, 
and  the  moonlight  sides  of  hills. 

The  parson  never  openly  professes  his  belief  in  ghosts,  but  I 
have  remarked  that  he  has  a  suspicious  way  of  pressing  great 
names  into  the  defence  of  supernatural  doctrines,  and  making 
philosophers  and  saints  fight  for  him.  He  expatiates  at  large 
on  the  opinions  of  the  ancient  philosophers  about  larves,  or  noc- 
turnal phantoms,  the  spirits  of  the  wicked,  which  wandered 
like  exiles  about  the  earth;  and  about  those  spiritual  beings 
which  abode  in  the  air,  but  descended  occasionally  to  earth,  and 
mingled  among  mortals,  acting  as  agents  between  them  and  the 
gods.  He  quotes  also  from  Philo  the  rabbi,  the  contemporary 
of  the  apostles,  and,  according  to  some,  the  friend  of  St.  Paul, 
who  says  that  the  air  is  full  of  spirits  of  different  ranks ;  some 
destined  to  exist  for  a  time  in  mortal  bodies,  from  which  being 
emancipated,  they  pass  and  repass  between  heaven  and  earth, 
as  agents  or  messengers  in  the  service  of  the  deity. 

But  the  worthy  little  man  assumes  a  bolder  tone,  when  he 
quotes  from  the  fathers  of  the  church ;  such  as  St.  Jerome,  who 
gives  it  as  the  opinion  of  all  the  doctors,  that  the  air  is  filled 
with  powers  opposed  to  each  other;  and  Lactantius,  who  saye 
that  corrupt  and  dangerous  spirits  wander  over  the  earth,  and 
seek  to  console  themselves  for  their  own  fall  by  effecting  the 
ruin  of  the  human  race;  and  Clemens  Alexandrinus,  who  is  oi 
opinion  that  the  souls  of  the  blessed  have  knowledge  of  what 
passes  among  men,  the  same  as  angels  have. 

I  am  now  alone  in  my  chamber,  but  these  themes  have  taken 
such  hold  of  my  imagination,  that  I  cannot  sleep.  The  room  in 
which  I  sit  is  just  fitted  to  foster  such  a  state  of  mind.  The 
walls  are  hung  with  tapestry,  the  figures  of  which  are  faded, 


86  BHACEBB1DGK  HALL. 

and  look  like  unsubstantial  shapes  melting  away  from  sight. 
Over  the  fire-place  is  the  portrait  of  a  lady,  who,  according  to 
the  housekeeper's  tradition,  pined  to  death  for  the  loss  of  her 
lover  in  the  battle  of  Blenheim.  She  has  a  most  pale  and  plain- 
tive countenance,  and  seems  to  fix  her  eyes  mournfully  upon 
me.  The  family  have  long  since  retired.  I  have  heard  their 
steps  die  away,  and  the  distant  doors  clap  to  after  them.  The 
murmur  of  voices,  and  the  peal  of  remote  laughter,  no  longer 
reach  the  ear.  The  clock  from  the  church,  in  which  so  many 
of  the  former  inhabitants  of  this  house  he  buried,  has  chimed 
the  awful  hour  of  midnight. 

I  have  sat  by  the  window  and  mused  upon  the  dusky  land- 
scape, watching  the  lights  disappearing,  one  by  one,  from  the 
distant  village.;  and  the  moon  rising  in  her  silent  majesty,  and 
leading  up  all  the  silver  pomp  of  heaven.  As  I  have  gazed  upon 
these  quiet  groves  and  shadowy  lawns,  silvered  over,  and  im- 
perfectly lighted  by  streaks  of  dewy  moonshine,  my  mind  has 
been  crowded  by  "thick-coming  fancies"  concerning  those 
spiritual  beings  which 

"  walk  the  earth 

Unseen,  both  when  we  wake  and  when  we  sleep." 

Are  there,  indeed,  such  beings?  Is  this  space  between  us  and 
the  deity  filled  up  by  innumerable  orders  of  spiritual  beings, 
forming  the  same  gradations  between  the  human  soul  and  di- 
vine perfection,  that  we  see  prevailing  from  humanity  down- 
wards to  the  meanest  insect?  It  is  a  sublime  and  beautiful  doc- 
trine, inculcated  by  the  early  fathers,  that  there  are  guardian 
angels  appointed  to  watch  over  cities  and  nations ;  to  take  care 
of  the  welfare  of  good  men,  and  to  guard  and  guide  the  stops 
of  helpless  infancy.  "Nothing,"  says  St.  Jerome,  "gives  us  a 
greater  idea  of  the  dignity  of  our  soul,  than  that  God  has  given 
each  of  us,  at  the  moment  of  our  birth,  an  angel  to  have  care 
of  it." 

Even  the  doctrine  of  departed  spirits  returning  to  visit  the 
scenes  and  beings  which  were  dear  to  them  during  the  body's 
existence,  though  it  has  been  debased  by  the  absurd  supersti- 
tions of  the  vulgar,  in  itself  is  awfully  solemn  and  sublime. 
However  lightly  it  may  be  ridiculed,  yet  the  attention  involun- 
tarily yielded  to  it  whenever  it  is  made  the  subject  of  serious 
discussion ;  its  prevalence  in  all  ages  and  countries,  and  even 
among  newly-discovered  nations,  that  have  had  no  previous  in- 
terchange of  thought  with  other  parts  of  the  world,  prove  it  to 


ST.    WARE'S  EVE.  87 

be  onp  of  those  mysteries,  and  almost  instinctive  beliefs,  to 
which,  if  left  to  ourselves,  we  should  naturally  incline. 

In  spite  of  all  the  pride  of  reason  and  philosophy,  a  vague 
doubt  will  still  lurk  in  the  mind,  and  perhaps  will  never  be  per- 
fectly eradicated;  as  it  is  concerning  a  matter  that  does  not 
admit  of  positive  demonstration.  Every  thing  connected  with 
our  spiritual  nature  is  full  of  doubt  and  difficulty.  "We  are 
fearfully  and  wonderfully  made :"  we  are  surrounded  by  rnys- 
.  and  we  are  mysteries  even  to  ourselves.  Who  yet  has 
b>.  ■  a  able  to  comprehend  and  describe  the  nature  of  the  soul, 
its  connection  with  the  body,  or  in  what  part  of  the  frame  it  is 
situated?  We  know  merely  that  it  does  exist;  but  whence  it 
janie,  and  when  it  entered  into  us.  and  how  it  is  retained,  and 
where  it  is  seated,  and  how  it  operates,  are  all  matters  of  mere 
speculation,  and  contradictory  theories.  If.  then,  we  are  thus 
ignorant  of  this  spiritual  essence,  even  while  it  forms  a  part  of 
ourselves,  and  is  continually  present  to  our  consciousness,  how 
can  we  pretend  to  ascertain  or  to  deny  its  powers  and  opera- 
tions when  released  from  its  fleshy  prison-house ''.  It  is  more 
the  manner,  therefore,  in  which  this  superstition  has  been  de- 
graded, than  its  intrinsic  absurdity,  that  has  brought  it  into 
contempt.  Raise  it  above  the  frivolous  purposes  to  which  it 
has  been  applied,  strip  it  of  the  gloom  and  horror  with  which  it 
has  been  surrounded,  and  there  is  none  of  the  whole  circle  of 
visionary  creeds  that  could  more  delightfully  elevate  the  im- 
agination, or  more  tenderly  affect  the  heart,  It  would  become 
a  sovereign  comfort  at  the  bed  of  death,  soothing  the  bitter 
tear  wrung  from  us  by  the  agony  of  our  mortal  separation. 
What  could  be  more  consoling  than  the  idea,  that  the  souls  of 
those  whom  we  once  loved  were  permitted  to  return  and  watch 
over  our  welfare.' — that  affectionate  and  guardian  spirits  sat  by 
our  pillows  when  we  slept,  keeping  a  vigil  over  our  most  help- 
It--  hours?— that  beauty  and  innocence  which  had  languished 
into  the  tomb,  yet  smiled  unseen  around  us,  revealing  them- 
■elves  in  those  blest  dreams  wherein  we  live  over  again  the 
hours  of  past  endearment  \  A  belief  of  this  kind  would,  I  should 
think,  be  a  new  incentive  to  virtue;  rendering  us  circumspect 
even  in  our  most  secret  moments,  from  the  idea  that  those  we 
once  loved  and  honoured  were  invisible  witnesses  of  all  our 
actions. 

It  would  take  away.  too.  from  that  loneliness  and  destitution 
which  we  are  apt  to  feel  more  and  more  ;<-  we  gel  on  in  our  pil- 
grimage through  the  wild  il,i-  world,  and  find   thai 


gg  BRACEBRIDOE  HALL. 

those  who  set  forward  with  us,  lovingly  and  cheerily,  on  the 
ourney,  have,  one  by  one,  dropped  away  from  our  ada  Place 
the  smx-rstition  in  this  light,  and  I  confess  I  should  like  to  he  a 
believer  in  it.  I  see  nothing  in  it  that  is  mcompatible  with  the 
tender  and  merciful  nature  of  our  religion,  nor  revoltmg  to  the 
wi^ios  and  affections  of  the  heart. 

Tnere  are  departed  beings  that  I  have  loved  as  I  never  again 
shall"  love  in  this  world  ;-that  have  loved  me  as  I  never  again 
SS  be  loved !  If  such  beings  do  ever  retain  in  their  blessed 
s  hcres  the  attachments  which  they  felt  on  earthy  they  take 
■«  ■  t.-r est  in  the  poor  concerns  of  transient  mortality,,  and  are 
P^i  m  ted  to  hold  Communion  with  those  wh  om  they  have .loved 
on  earth  I  feel  as  if  now,  at  this  deep  hour  of  night,  in  to 
sSence  and  solitude,  I  could  receive  then-  visitation  wnh  the 
most  solemn,  but  unalloyed  delight. 

In  trath  such  visitations  would  he  too  happy  for  this  world 

rhev  would  be  incompatible  with  the  nature  of  this  imperfect 

state  of  being.    We  are  here  placed  in  a  mere  scene  of  spiritual 

t  i   ddom  and  restraint. .  Our  souls  are  shut  in  and  limited  by 

bo,       "nd  barriers ;  shackled  by  mortal  infirmities,  and  sub- 

iec"  to  all  the  gross  impediments  of  matter.    In  vain  would 

Ihev  seek  to  act  independently  of  the  body,  and  to  mingle 

together  in  spiritual  intercourse.      They  can  only  act  here 

ttoourfi  t  eir  fleshv  organs.    Their  earthly  loves  are  made  up 

o  transient  embraces  and  long  separations.    The  most  intimate 

friendXp  of  what  brief  and  scattered  portions  of  time  does  it 

•     "nSst  -    We  take  each  other  by  the  hand,  and  we  exchange  a 

few  words  and  looks  of  kindness,  and  we  rejoice  together  for  a 

few  Tort  momente-and  then  days,  months,  years  mtervene 

S  Z  see  and  know  nothing  of  each  other.    Or,  granting that 

wTdwell  together  for  the  full  season  of  this  our  mortal  life,  the 

g^ave  soon  fots  its  gates  between  us  and L  then ,  our  spuits  are 

doomed  to  remain  in  separation  and  widowhood,  until  thej 

meefaga m  in that  more  perfect  state  of  being,  where  soul  wdl 

"weKh  soul  in  blissful  communion,  and  there  will  be  neither 

«  nor  absence,  nor  any  thfrg  ebe  to  interrupt  our  fehcity, 

*  *  In  the  foregoing  paper,  I  have  alluded  to  the  writings  of 
some  of  the  old  Jewish  rabbins.  They  abound  with  wdd 
Cories;  out  among  them  are  many  truly  V^^g* 
their  ideas  are  often  very  beautifully  exPress^a^^\^euCl 
lations  on  the  nature  of  angels  are  curious  and  fanciful,  though 
mnc    resembling  the  doctrines  of  the  ancient  philosophers.    In 


GENTILITY.  89 

the  writings  of  the  Rabbi  Eleazer  is  an  account  of  the  tempta- 
tion of  our  first  j  arei  ts.  and  the  fall  of  the  angels,  which  the 
parson  pointed  out  to  me  as  having  probably  furnished  some  of 
the  groundwork  for  "  Paradise  Lost." 

According  to  Eleazer,  the  ministering  angels  said  to  the 
Deity,  ,k  What  is  there  in  man.  that  thou  makest  him  of  such 
importance  ?  Is  he  any  thing  else  than  vanity  ?  for  he  can 
scarcely  reason  a  little  on  terrestrial  things."'  To  which  God 
replied,  ' '  Do  you  imagine  that  I  will  be  exalted  and  glorified 
only  by  you  here  above  !  I  am  the  same  below  that  I  am  here. 
Who  is  there  among  you  that  can  call  all  the  creatures  by  their 
names  ?"  There  was  none  foimd  among  them  that  could  do  so. 
At  that  moment  Adam  arose,  and  called  all  the  creatures  by 
their  names.  Seeing  which,  the  ministering  angels  said  among 
themselves,  ' '  Let  us  consult  together  how  we  may  cause  Adam 
to  sin  against  the  Creator,  otherwise  he  will  not  fail  to  become 
our  master." 

Sammael,  who  was  a  great  prince  in  the  heavens,  was  present 
at  this  council,  with  the  saints  of  the  first  order,  and  the  sera- 
phim of  six  bands.  Sammael  chose  several  out  of  the  twelve 
orders  to  accompany  him,  and  descended  below,  for  the  purpose 
of  visiting  all  the  creatures  which  God  had  created.  He  found 
none  more  cunning  and  more  fit  to  do  evil  than  the  serpent. 

The  Rabbi  then  treats  of  the  seduction  and  the  fall  of  man; 
of  the  consequent  fall  of  the  demon,  and  the  punishment  which 
God  inflicted  on  Adam,  Eve,  and  the  serpent.  ' '  He  made  them 
all  come  before  him ;  pronounced  nine  maledictions  on  Adam 
and  Eve.  and  condemned  them  to  suffer  death ;  and  he  precipi- 
tated Sammael  and  all  his  band  from  heaven.  He  cut  off  the 
feet  of  the  serpent,  which  had  before  the  figure  of  a  camel 
(Sammael  having  been  mounted  on  him),  and  he  cursed  liim 
among  all  beasts  and  animals. " 


GENTILITY. 


True  Gentrie  standeth  in  the  trade 


<  >f  virtuous  life,  not  in  the  fleshy  line; 
For  l»loud  is  knit,  but  Gtentrie  is  divine. 

-  Mirror  for  Magistrate*. 

I  have  mentioned  some  peculiarities  of  the  Squire  in  the 
education  of  his  sons;  but  I  would  not  have  it  thought  that  his 


90  BRACBBRIVGE  HALT, 

instructions  were  directed  chiefly  to  their  pei  sonal  accomplish- 
ments He  took  great  pains  also  to  form  their  nnnds,  and  to 
inculcate  what  he  calls  good  old  English  principles,  such  as  are 
laid  down  in  the  writings  of  Peachem  and  his  contemporaries. 
There  is  one  author  of  whom  he  cannot  speak  without  indigna- 
tion which  is  Chesterfield.  He  avers  that  he  did  much,  for  a 
time  to  injure  the  true  national  character,  and  to  introduce, 
instead  of  open,  manly  sincerity,  a  hollow,  perfidious  courtlr 
ness  ''His  maxims,"  he  affirms,  "were  calculated  to  chill 
the  delightful  enthusiasm  of  youth;  to  make  them  ashamed  of 
that  romance  which  is  the  dawn  of  generous  manhood,  and  to 
impart  to  them  a  cold  polish  and  a  premature  worldliness. 

*  Many  of  Lord  Chesterfield's  maxims  would  make  a  young 
man  a  mere  man  of  pleasure ;  but  an  English  gentleman  should 
not  be-a  mere  man  of  pleasure.     He  has  no  right  to  such  selfish 
indulgence     His  ease,  his  leisure,  his  opulence,  are  debts  due 
to  his  country,  which  he  must  ever  stand  ready  to  discharge. 
He  should  be  a  man  at  all  points;  simple,  frank,  courteous 
intelligent,  accomplished,  and  informed;  upright,  intrepid,  and 
disinterested;  one  that  can  mingle  among  freemen;  that  can 
cope  with  statesmen;  that  can  champion  his  country  and  its 
rights  either  at  home  or  abroad.     In  a  country  like  England, 
where  there  is  such  free  and  unbounded  scope  for  the  exertion 
of  intellect,  and  where  opinion  and  example  have  such  weight 
with  the  people,  every  gentleman  of  fortune  and  leisure  should 
feel  himself  bound  to  employ  himself  in  some  way  towards 
promoting  the  prosperity  or  glory  of  the  nation.     In  a  country 
where  intellect  and  action  are  trammelled  and  restrained,  men 
of  rank  and  fortune  may  become  idlers  and  triflers  with  im- 
punity  but  an  English  coxcomb  is  inexcusable;   and  this, 
perhaps,  is  the  reason  why  he  is  the  most  offensive  and  insup- 
portable coxcomb  in  the  world." 

The  Squire,  as  Frank  Bracebridge  informs  me,  would  otten 
*old  forth  in  this  manner  to  his  sons,  when  they  were  about 
leaving  the  paternal  roof;  one  to  travel  abroad,  one  to  go  to 
the  army,  and  one  to  the  university.  He  used  to  have  them 
with  him  in  the  library,  which  is  hung  with  the  portraits  ol 
Sidney,  Surrey,  Raleigh,  Wyat,  and  others.  "Look  at  those 
models  of  true  English  gentlemen,  my  sons,"  he  would  say 
with  enthusiasm;  "those  were  men  that  wreathed  the  graces 
of  the  most  delicate  and  refined  taste  around  the  stern  virtues 
of  the  soldier;  that  mingled  what  was  gentle  and  gracious 
with  what  was  hardy  and  manly;  that  possessed  the  true 


9BNTIUTT.  91 

chivalry  of  spirit,  which  is  the  exalted  essence  of  manhood. 
They  are  the  lights  by  which  the  youth  of  the  country  should 
array  themselves.  They  were  the  patterns  and  idols  of  their 
country  at  home;  they  were  the  illustrators  of  its  dignity 
abroad.  'Surrey,'  says  Camden,  'was  the  first  nobleman  that 
illustrated  his  high  birth  with  the  beauty  of  learning.  He  was 
acknowledged  to  be  the  gallantest  man,  the  politest  lover,  and 
the  completest  gentleman  of  his  time. '  And  as  to  Wyal.  his 
friend  Surrey  most  amiably  testifies  of  him,  that  his  person 
was  majestic  and  beautiful,  his  visage  '  stern  and  mild ;'  that 
he  sung,  and  played  the  lute  with  remarkable  sweetness ;  spoke 
foreign  languages  with  grace  and  fluency,  and  possessed  an 
inexhaustible  fund  of  wit.  And  see  what  a  high  commenda- 
tion is  passed  upon  these  illustrious  friends :  '  They  were  the 
two  chieftains,  who,  having  travelled  into  Italy,  and  there 
tasted  the  sweet  and  stately  measures  and  style  of  the  Italian 
poetry,  greatly  polished  our  rude  and  homely  manner  of  vulgar 
poetry  from  what  it  had  been  before,  and  therefore  may  be 
justly  called  the  reformers  of  our  English  poetry  and  style.' 
And  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  who  has  left  us  such  monuments  of 
elegant  thought,  and  generous  sentiment,  and  who  illustrated 
his  chivalrous  spirit  so  gloriously  in  the  field.  And  Sir  "Walter 
Raleigh,  the  elegant  courtier,  the  intrepid  soldier,  the  enter- 
prising discoverer,  the  enlightened  philosopher,  the  magnani- 
mous martyr.  These  are  the  men  for  English  gentlemen  to 
study.  Chesterfield,  with  his  cold  and  courtly  maxims,  would 
have  chilled  and  impoverished  such  spirits.  He  would  have 
blighted  all  the  budding  romance  of  their  temperaments. 
Sidney  would  never  have  written  his  Arcadia,  nor  Surrey 
have  challenged  the  world  in  vindication  of  the  beauties  of  his 
Geraldine.  ''These  are  the  men,  my  sons,"  the  Squire  will 
continue.  ' '  that  show  to  what  our  national  character  may  be 
exalted,  when  its  strong  and  powerful  qualities  are  duly 
wrought  up  and  refined.  The  solidest  bodies  are  capable  of 
the  highest  polish;  and  there  is  no  character  that  may  be 
wrought  to  a  more  exquisite  and  unsullied  brightness,  than 
that  of  the  true  English  gentleman." 

When  Guy  was  about  to  depart  for  the  army,  the  Squire 
again  took  him  aside,  and  gave  him  a  long  exhortation.  He 
warned  him  against  that  affectation  of  cool-blooded  indiffer- 
ence, which  he  was  told  was  cultivated  by  the  young  British 
officers,  among  whom  it  Avas  a  study  to  ''sink  t!i^  soldier"  in 
the  mere  man   of  fashion.     "A  soldier,"  said  he,    "without 


92 


BRACEBRIDOE  HALL. 


pride  and  enthusiasm  in  his  profession,  is  a  mere  sanguinary 
hireling  Nothing  distinguishes  him  from  the  mercenary 
bravo,  but  a  spirit  of  patriotism,  or  a  thirst  for  glory.  It  is  the 
fashion  now-a-days,  my  son,"  said  he,  "to  laugh  at  the  spirit  of 
chivalry:  when  that  spirit  is  really  extinct,  the  profession  of 
the  soldier  becomes  a  mere  trade  of  blood."  He  then  set 
before  him  the  conduct  of  Edward  the  Black  Prince,  who  is  his 
mirror  of  chivalry;  valiant,  generous,  affable,  humane;  gal- 
lant in  the  field.  But  when  he  came  to  dwell  on  his  courtesy 
toward  his  prisoner,  the  king  of  France;  how  he  received  him 
in  liis  tent,  rather  as  a  conqueror  than  as  a  captive;  attended 
on  him  at  table  like  one  of  his  retinue;  rode  uncovered  beside 
him  on  his  entry  into  London,  mounted  on  a  common  palfrey 
while  his  prisoner  was  mounted  in  state  on  a  white  steed  of 
stately  beauty;  the  tears  of  enthusiasm  stood  in  the  old  gen- 
tleman's  eyes.  .  .       .         , 

Finally,  on  taking  leave,  the  good  Squire  put  in  his  sons 
hands,  as  a  manual,  one  of  his  favourite  old  volumes,  the  life  of 
the  Chevalier  Bayard,  by  Godefroy ;  on  a  blank  page  of  which 
he  had  written  an  extract  from  the  Morte  d' Arthur,  containing 
the  eulogy  of  Sir  Ector  over  the  body  of  Sir  Launcelot  of  the 
Lake  which  the  Squire  considers  as  comprising  the  excellen- 
cies of  a  true  soldier.  f'Ah,  Sir  Launcelot!  thou  wert  head 
of  all  Christian  knights;  now  there  thou  liest:  thou  wert  new. 
matched  of  none  earthly  knights-hands.  And  thou  wert  the 
curtiest  knight  that  ever  bare  shield.  And  thou  wert  the 
truest  friend  to  thy  lover  that  ever  bestrood  horse;  and  thou 
wert  the  truest  lover  of  a  sinfull  man  that  ever  loved  woman. 
\nd  thou  wert  the  kindest  man  that  ever  strook  with  sword; 
and  thou  wert  the  goodliest  person  that  ever  came  among  the 
presse  of  knights.  And  thou  wert  the  meekest  man  and  the 
gentlest  that  ever  eate  in  haU  among  ladies.  And  thou  wert 
the  sternest  knight  to  thy  mortal  foe  that  ever  put  speare  in 
the  rest." 


FORTUNE-  TELLING.  93 


FORTUNE-TELLING. 

Each  city,  each  town,  and  every  village, 

Affords  us  either  an  alms  or  pillage. 

And  if  the  weather  be  cold  and  raw. 

Then  in  a  barn  we  tumble  on  straw. 

If  warm  and  fair,  by  yea-cock  and  nay-cock, 

The  fields  will  afford  us  a  hedge  or  a  hay-cock.— Merry  Beggars. 

As  I  was  walking  one  evening  with  the  Oxonian,  Master 
ion,  and  the  general,  in  a  meadow  not  far  from  the  village, 
re  heard  the  sound  of  a  fiddle,  rudely  played,  and  looking  in 

le  direction  from  whence  it  came,  we  saw  a  thread  of  smoke 
curling  up  from  among  the  trees.  The  sound  of  music  is 
always  attractive ;  for,  wherever  there  is  music,  there  is  good- 
humour,  or  good-will.     We  passed  along  a  footpath,  and  had  a 

>p  through  a  break  in  the  hedge,  at  the  musician  and  his 
by,  when  the  Oxonian  gave  us  a  wink,  and  told  us  that  if 
re  would  follow  him  we  should  have  some  sport. 

It  proved  to  be  a  gipsy  encampment,  consisting  of  three  or 
four  little  cabins,  or  tents,  made  of  blankets  and   sail-cloth, 

-ead  over  hoops  that  were  stuck  in  the  ground.  It  was  on 
)ne  side  of  a  green  lane,  close  under  a  hawthorn  hedge,  with 
a  broad  beech-tree  spreading  above  it.  A  small  rill  tinkled 
along  close  by.  through  the  fresh  sward,  that  looked  like  a 
carpet. 

A  tea-kettle  was  hanging  by  a  crooked  piece  of  iron,  over  a 
fire  made  from  dry  sticks  and  leaves,  and  two  old  gipsies,  in 
red  cloaks,  sat  crouched  on  the  grass,  gossiping  over  their 
evening  cup  of  tea ;  for  these  creatures,  though  they  five  in  the 
open  air.  have  their  ideas  of  fireside  comforts.  There  were 
two  or  three  children  sleeping  on  the  straw  with  which  the 
tents  were  littered ;  a  couple  of  donkeys  were  grazing  in  the 
lane,  and  a  thievish-looking  dog  was  lying  before  the  fire. 
Some  of  the  younger  gipsies  were  dancing  to  the  music  of  a 
fiddle,  played  by  a  tall,  slender  stripling,  in  an  old  frock-coat, 
with  a  peacock's  feather  stuck  in  his  hat-band. 

As  we  approached,  a  gipsy  girl,  with  a  pair  of  fine,  roguish 
eyes,  came  up,  and.  as  usual,  offered  to  tell  our  fortunes.  I 
could  not  but  admire  a  certain  degree  of  slattern  elegance  about 
the  baggage.  Her  long  black  silken  hair  was  curiously  plaited 
in  numerous  small  braids,  and  negligently  put  up  in  a  pic- 


94  BRACEBRIDGE  BALL. 

turesque  style  that  a  painter  might  have  been  proud  to  have 
devised. 

Her  dress  was  of  figured  chintz,  rather  ragged,  and  not  over- 
clean  but  of  a  variety  of  most  harmonious  and  agreeable  colours ; 
for  these  beings  have  a  singularly  fine  eye  for  colours.  Her 
straw  hat  was  in  her  hand,  and  a  red  cloak  thrown  over  one  arm. 

The  Oxonian  offered  at  once  to  have  his  fortune  told,  and  the 
girl  began  with  the  usual  volubility  of  her  race;  but  he  drew 
her  on  one  side,  near  the  hedge,  as  he  said  he  had  no  idea  of 
having  his  secrets  overheard.  I  saw  he  was  talking  to  her 
instead  of  she  to  him.  and  by  his  glancing  towards  us  now  and 
then,  that  he  was  giving  the  baggage  some  private  hints. 
When  they  returned  to  us,  he  assumed  a  very  serious  air. 
"Zounds!"  said  he,  "  it's  very  astonishing  how  these  creatures 
come  by  their  knowledge;  this  girl  has  told  me  somethings 
that  I  thought  no  one  knew  but  myself !"  The  girl  now  assailed 
the  general:  "Come,  your  honour,"  said  she,  "  I  see  by  your 
face  you're  a  lucky  man ;  but  you're  not  happy  in  your  mind ; 
you're  not,  indeed,  sir;  but  have  a  good  heart,  and  give  me  a 
good  piece  of  silver,  and  111  tell  you  a  nice  fortune." 

The  general  had  received  all  her  approaches  with  a  banter, 
and  had  suffered  her  to  get  hold  of  his  hand;  but  at  the 
mention  of  the  piece  of  silver,  he  hemmed,  looked  grave,  and, 
turning  to  us,  asked  if  we  had  not  better  continue  our  walk. 
"Come,  my  master,"  said  the  girl,  archly,  "you'd  not  be  in 
such  a  hurry,  if  you  knew  all  that  I  could  tell  you  about  a  fair 
lady  that  has  a  notion  for  you.  Come,  sir;  old  love  burns 
strong;  there's  many  a  one  comes  to  see  weddings,  that  go 
away  brides  themselves.  "—Here  the  girl  whispered  something 
in  a  low  voice,  at  which  the  general  coloured  up,  was  a  little  flut- 
tered, and  suffered  himself  to  be  drawn  aside  under  the  hedge, 
where  he  appeared  to  listen  to  her  with  great  earnestness,  and 
at  the  end  paid  her  half-a-crown  with  the  air  of  a  man  that 
has  got  the  worth  of  his  money.  The  girl  next  made  her  attack 
upon  Master  Simon,  who,  however,  was  too  old  a  bird  to  be 
caught,  knowing  that  it  would  end  in  an  attack  upon  his  purse, 
about  which  he  is  a  little  sensitive.  As  he  has  a  great  notion, 
however,  of  being  considered  a  royster,  he  chucked  her  under 
the  chin,  played  her  off  with  rather  broad  jokes,  and  put  on 
something  of  the  rake-helly  air,  that  we  see  now  and  then 
assumed  on  the  stage,  by  the  sad-boy  gentleman  of  the  old 
school.  l '  Ah,  your  honour, "  said  the  girl,  with  a  malicious  leer, 
"you  were  not  in  such  a  tantrum  last  year,  when  I  told  you 


FOBTTJXE-TELTAyc  95 

about  the  widow,  you  know  who ;  but  if  you  had  taken  a  friend's 
advice,  you'd  never  have  come  away  from  Doncaster  races  with 
a  flea  in  your  ear!"  There  was  a  secret  sting  in  this  speech, 
that  seemed  quite  to  disconcert  Master  Simon.  He  jerked 
away  his  hand  in  a  pet,  smacked  his  whip,  whistled  to  his  dogs, 
and  intimated  that  it  was  high  time  to  go  home.  The  girl,  how- 
ever, was  determined  not  to  lose  her  harvest.  She  now  turned 
upon  me,  and,  as  I  have  a  weakness  of  spirit  where  there  is  a 
pretty  face  concerned,  she  soon  wheedled  me  out  of  my  money, 
and.  in  return,  read  me  a  fortune ;  which,  if  it  prove  true,  and  I 
am  determined  to  believe  it,  will  make  me  one  of  the  luckiest 
men  in  the  chronicles  of  Cupid. 

I  saw  that  the  Oxonian  was  at  the  bottom  of  all  this  oracular 
mystery,  and  was  disposed  to  amuse  himself  with  the  general, 
whose  tender  approaches  to  the  widow  have  attracted  the 
notice  of  the  wag.  I  was  a  little  curious,  however,  to  know 
the  meaning  of  the  dark  hints  which  had  so  suddenly  discon- 
certed Master  Simon ;  and  took  occasion  to  fall  in  the  rear  with 
the  Oxonian  on  our  way  home,  when  he  laughed  heartily  at  my 
questions,  and  gave  me  ample  information  on  the  subject. 

The  truth  of  the  matter  is,  that  Master  Simon  has  met  with 
a  sad  rebuff  since  my  Christmas  visit  to  the  Hall.  He  used  at 
that  time  to  be  joked  about  a  Avidow,  a  fine  dashing  woman,  as 
he  privately  informed  me.  I  had  supposed  the  pleasure  he 
betrayed  on  these  occasions  resulted  from  the  usual  fondness 
of  old  bachelors  for  being  teased  about  getting  married,  and 
about  flirting,  and  being  fickle  and  false-hearted.  I  am  assured, 
however,  that  Master  Simon  had  really  persuaded  himself  the 
widow  had  a  kindness  for  him ;  in  consequence  of  which  he 
had  been  at  some  extraordinary  expense  in  new  clothes,  and  had 
actually  got  Frank  Bracebridge  to  order  him  a  coat  from  Stultz. 
He  began  to  throw  out  hints  about  the  importance  of  a  man's 
settling  himself  in  life  before  he  grew  old ;  he  would  look  grave, 
whenever  the  widow  and  matrimony  were  mentioned  in  the 
same  sentence;  and  privately  asked  the  opinion  of  the  Squire 
and  parson  about  the  prudence  of  marrying  a  widow  with  a 
rich  jointure,  but  who  had  several  children. 

An  important  member  of  a  great  family  connexion  cannot 
harp  much  upon  the  theme  of  matrimony,  without  its  taking 
wind :  and  it  soon  got  buzzed  about  that  Mr.  Simon  Bracebridge 
was  actually  gone  to  Doncaster  races,  with  a  new  horse ;  but 
that  he  meant  to  return  in  a  curricle  with  a  lady  by  his  side. 
Master  Simon  did,  indeed,  go  to  the  races,  and  that  with  a  new 


g6  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

horse ;  and  the  dashing  widow  did  make  her  appearance  in  a 
curricle;  but  it  was  unfortunately  driven  by  a  strapping  young 
Irish  dragoon,  with  whom  even  Master  Simon's  self-complacency 
would  not  allow  him  to  venture  into  competition,  and  to  whom 
she  was  married  shortly  after. 

It  was  a  matter  of  sore  chagrin  to  Master  Simon  for  several 
months,  having  never  before  been  fully  committed.  The  dull- 
est head  in  the  family  had  a  joke  upon  him;  and  there  is  no 
one  that  likes  less  to  be  bantered  than  an  absolute  joker.  He 
took  refuge  for  a  tune  at  Lady  Lilly  craft's,  until  the  matter 
should  blow  over ;  and  occupied  himself  by  looking  over  her 
accounts,  regulating  the  village  choir,  and  inculcating  loyalty 
into  a  pet  bulfinch,  by  teaching  him  to  whistle  "  God  save  the 
King." 

He  has  now  pretty  nearly  recovered  from  the  mortification ; 
holds  up  his  head,  and  laughs  as  much  as  any  one ;  again  affects 
to  pity  married  men,  and  is  particularly  facetious  about  widows, 
when  Lady  Lillycraft  is  not  by.  His  only  time  of  trial  is  when 
the  general  gets  hold  of  him,  who  is  infinitely  heavy  and  per- 
severing in  his  waggery,  and  will  interweave  a  dull  joke  through 
the  various  topics  of  a  whole  dinner-time.  Master  Simon  often 
parries  these  attacks  by  a  stanza  from  his  old  work  of  "Cupid's 
Solicitor  for  Love :" 

"  Tis  in  vain  to  wooe  a  widow  over  long, 

In  once  or  twice  her  mind  you  ma}'  perceive; 
Widows  are  subtle/be  they  old  or  young, 
And  by  their  wiles  young  men  they  will  deceive." 


LOVE-CHARMS. 


Come,  do  not  weep,  my  girl, 

Forget  him,  pretty  Pensivencss;  there  will 

Come  others,  every  day,  as  good  as  he.— Sir  J.  Suckling. 

The  approach  df  a  wedding  in  a  family  is  always  an  event  of 
great  importance,  but  particularly  so  in  a  household  like  this, 
in  a  retired  part  of  the  country.  Master  Simon,  who  is  a 
pervading  spirit,  and,  through  means  of  the  butler  and  house- 
keeper, knows  every  thing  that  goes  forward,  tells  me  that 
the  maid-servants  are  continually  trying  their  fortunes,  and 
that  the  servants'-hall  has  of  late  been  quite  a  scene  of  incan- 
tation* 


LOVE- CHARMS.  97 

It  is  ami;  ;ing  to  notice  how  the  oddities  of  the  head  of  a 
family  flor  down  through  all  the  branches.  The  Squire,  in  the 
indulgence  of  his  love  of  every  thing  that  smacks  of  old  times, 
has  hoi'1  so  many  grave  conversations  with  the  parson  at  table, 
about  popular  superstitions  and  traditional  rites,  that  they 
have  been  carried  from  the  parlour  to  the  kitchen  by  the  listen- 
ing domestics,  and,  being  apparently  sanctioned  by  such  high 
authority,  the  whole  house  has  become  infected  by  them. 

The*  servants  are  all  versed  in  the  common  modes  of  trying 
luck,  and  the  charms  to  insure  constancy.  They  read  their 
fortunes  by  drawing  strokes  in  the  ashes,  or  by  repeating  a 
form  of  words,  and  looking  in  a  pail  of  water.  St.  Mark's  Eve, 
I  am  told,  was  a  busy  time  with  them ;  being  an  appointed  night 
for  certain  mystic  ceremonies.  Several  of  them  sowed  hemp- 
seed  to  be  reaped  by  their  true  lovers ;  and  they  even  ventured 
upon  the  solemn  and  fearful  preparation  of  the  dumb-cake. 
This  must  be  done  fasting,  and  in  silence.  The  ingredients  are 
handed  down  in  traditional  form:  "  An  eggshell  full  of  salt,  an 
eggshell  full  of  malt,  and  an  eggshell  full  of  barley-meal. "  When 
the  cake  is  ready,  it  is  put  upon  a  pan  over  the  fire,  and  the 
future  husband  will  appear,  turn  the  cake,  and  retire ;  but  if  a 
word  is  spoken  or  a  fast  is  broken  during  this  awful  ceremony, 
there  is  no  knowing  what  horrible  consequences  would  ensue ! 

The  experiments,  in  the  present  instance,  came  to  no  result ; 
they  that  sowed  the  hemp-seed  forgot  the  magic  rhyme  that 
they  were  to  pronounce— so  the  true  lover  never  appeared ;  and 
as  to  the  dumb-cake,  what  between  the  awful  stillness  they  had 
to  keep,  and  the  aw  fulness  of  the  midnight  hour,  their  hearts 
failed  them  when  they  had  put  the  cake  in  the  pan :  so  that,  on 
•the  striking  of  the  great  house-clock  in  the  servants'-hall,  they 
were  seized  with  a  sudden  panic,  and  ran  out  of  the  room,  to 
which  they  did  not  return  until  morning,  when  they  found  the 
mystic  cake  burnt  to  a  cinder. 

The  most  persevering  at  these  spells,  however,  is  Phoebe 
Wilkins,  the  housekeeper  s  niece.  As  she  is  a  kind  of  privi- 
leged personage,  and  rather  idle,  she  has  more  time  to  occupy 
herself  with  these  ma  Iters.  She  has  always  had  her  head  full 
of  love  and  matrimony.  She  knows  the  dream-book  by  heart, 
and  is  quite  an  oracle  among  the  little  girls  of  the  family, 
who  always  come  to  her  to  interpret  their  dreams  in  the  morn- 
ings. 

During  the  present  gayety  of  the  house,  however,  the  poor 
girl  has  worn  a  face  full  of  trouble ;  and,  to  use  the  house 


98  BBACEBRWQE  HALL. 

keeper's  words,  "has  fallen  into  a  sad  hystericky  way  lately." 
It  seems  that  she  was  born  and  brought  up  in  the  village, 
where  her  father  was  parish-clerk,  and  she  was  an  early  play- 
mate and  sweetheart  of  young  Jack  Tibbets.  Since  she  has 
come  to  live  at  the  Hall,  however,  her  head  has  been  a  little 
turned.  Being  very  pretty,  and  naturally  genteel,  she  has 
been  much  noticed  and  indulged ;  and  being  the  housekeepers 
niece,  she  has  held  an  equivocal  station  between  a  servant  and 
a  companion.  She  has  learnt  something  of  fashions  and  notions 
among  the  young  ladies,  which  Jiave  effected  quite  a  metamor- 
phosis; insomuch  that  her  finery  at  church  on  Sundays  has 
given  mortal  offence  to  her  former  intimates  in  the  village. 
This  has  occasioned  the  misrepresentations  which  have 
awakened  the  implacable  family  pride  of  Dame  Tibbets.  But 
what  is  worse,  Phoebe,  having  a  spice  of  coquetry  in  her  dis- 
position, showed  it  on  one  or  two  occasions  to  her  lover,  which 
produced  a  downright  quarrel ;  and  Jack,  being  very  proud  and 
fiery,  has  absolutely  turned  his  back  upon  her  for  several  suc- 
cessive Sundays. 

The  poor  girl  is  full  of  sorrow  and  repentance,  and  would  fain 
make  up  with  her  lover ;  but  he  feels  his  security,  and  stands 
aloof.  In  this  he  is  doubtless  encouraged  by  Ins  mother,  who 
is  continually  reminding  him  what  he  owes  to  his  family ;  for 
this  same  family  pride  seems  doomed  to  be  the  eternal  bane  of 
lovers. 

As  I  hate  to  see  a  pretty  face  in  trouble,  I  have  felt  quite 
concerned  for  the  luckless  Phoebe,  ever  since  I  heard  her  story. 
It  is  a  sad  thing  to  be  thwarted  in  love  at  any  time,  but  par- 
ticularly^ at  this  tender  season  of  the  year,  when  every  living 
thing,  even  to  the  very  butterfly,  is  sporting  with  its  mate ;  and 
the  green  fields,  and  the  budding  groves,  and  the  singing  of  the 
birds,  and  the  sweet  smell  of  the  flowers,  are  enough  to  turn  the 
head  of  a  love-sick  girl.  I  am  told  that  the  coolness  of  young 
Eeady-Money  lies  very  heavy  at  poor  Phoebe's  heart.  Instead 
of  singing  about  the  house  as  formerly,  she  goes  about  pale  and 
sighing,  and  is  apt  to  break  into  tears  when  her  companions  are 
full  of  merriment. 

Mrs.  Hannah,  the  vestal  gentlewoman  of  my  Lady  Lillycraft, 
has  had  long  talks  and  walks  with  Phoebe,  up  and  down  the 
avenue  of  an  evening ;  and  has  endeavoured  to  squeeze  some  of 
her  own  verjuice  into  the  other's  milky  nature.  She  speaks 
with  contempt  and  abhorrence  of  the  whole  sex,  and  advises 
Phoebe  to  despise  all  the  men  as  heartily  as  she  does.    But 


THE  LIBRARY.  99 

Phoebe's  loving  temper  is  not  to  be  curdled ;  she  has  no  such 
tiling  as  hatred  or  contempt  for  mankind  in  her  whole  compo- 
sition. She  has  all  the  simple  fondness  of  heart  of  poor,  weak, 
loving  woman ;  and  her  only  thoughts  at  present  are  how  to 
conciliate  and  reclaim  her  wayward  swain. 

The  spelJs  and  love-charms,  which  are  matters  of  sport  to  the 
other  domestics,  are  serious  concerns  with  this  love-stricken 
damsel.  She  is.  continually  trying  her  fortune  in  a  variety  of 
prays.  I  am  told  that  she  has  absolutely  fasted  for  six 
Wednesdays  and  three  Fridays  successively,  having  under- 
stood that  it  was  a  sovereign  charm  to  insure  being  married 
to  one's  liking  within  the  year.  She  carries  about,  also,  a  lock 
of  her  sweetheart's  hair,  and  a  riband  he  once  gave  her,  being 
a  mode  of  producing  constancy  in  a  lover.  She  even  went  so 
far  as  to  try  her  fortune  by  the  moon,  which  has  always  had 
much  to  do  with  lovers'  dreams  and  fancies.  For  this  purpose, 
she  went  out  in  the  night  of  the  full  moon,  knelt  on  a  stone 
in  the  meadow,  and  repeated  the  old  traditional  rhyme : 

Ci  All  hail  to  thee,  moon,  all  hail  to  thee; 
I  pray  thee,  good  moon,  now  show  to  me 
The  youth  who  my  future  husband  shall  be." 

When  she  came  back  to  the  house,  she  was  faint  and  pale, 
and  went  immediately  to  bed.  The  next  morning  she  told  the 
porter's  wife  that  she  had  seen  some  one  close  by  the  hedge 
in  the  meadow,  which  she  was  sure  was  young  Tibbets;  at  any 
rate,  she  had  dreamt  of  him  all  night ;  both  of  which,  the  old 
dame  assured  her,  were  most  happy  signs.  It  has  since  turned 
out  that  the  person  in  the  meadow  was  old  Christy,  the  hunts- 
man, who  was  walking  his  nightly  rounds  with  the  great  stag- 
hound;  so  that  Phoebe's  faith  in  the  charm  is  completely 
shaken. 


THE  LIBRARY. 


Yesterday  the  fair  Julia  made  her  first  appearance  down- 
stairs since  her  accident ;  and  the  sight  of  her  spread  an  uni- 
versal cheerfulness  through  the  household.  She  was  extremely 
pale,  however,  and  could  not  walk  without  pain  and  difficulty. 
3hewas  assisted,  therefore,  to  a  sofa  in  the  library,  which  is 
pleasant  and  retired,  looking  out  among  trees;  and  so  quiet, 


100  BRAGEBRIDGE  HALL. 

that  the  little  birds  come  hopping  upon  the  windows,  and  peer- 
ing curiously  into  the  apartment.  Here  several  of  the  family 
gathered  round,  and  devised  means  to  amuse  her,  and  make 
the  day  pass  pleasantly.  Lady  Lillycraft  lamented  the  want 
of  some  new  novel  to  while  away  the  time ;  and  was  almost  in 
a  pet,  because  the  "  Author  of  Waverley"  had  not  produced  a 
work  for  the  last  three  months. 

There  was  a  motion  made  to  call  on  the  parson  for  some  of 
his  old  legends  or  ghost  stories ;  but  to  this  Lady  Lillycraft  ob- 
jected, as  they  were  apt  to  give  her  the  vapours.  General  Har-J 
bottle  gave  a  minute  account,  for  the  sixth  time,  of  the  disaster 
of  a  friend  in  India,  who  had  his  leg  bitten  off  by  a  tiger,  whilst 
he  was  hunting ;  and  was  proceeding  to  menace  the  company 
with  a  chapter  or  two  about  Tippoo  Saib. 

At  length  the  captain  bethought  himself  and  said,  he  believed 
he  had  a  manuscript  tale  lying  in  one  corner  of  his  campaign- 
ing trunk,  which,  if  he  could  find,  and  the  company  were; 
desirous,  he  would  read  to  them.  The  offer  was  eagerly!, 
accepted.  He  retired,  and  soon  returned  with  a  roll  of  blotted 
manuscript,  in  a  very  gentlemanlike,  but  nearly  illegible,  hand,, 
and  a  great  part  written  on  cartridge-paper. 

"It  is  one  of  the  scribblings, "  said  he,  "  of  my  poor  friend, 
Charles  Lightly,  of  the  dragoons.  He  was  a  curious,  romantic, 
studious,  fanciful  fellow;  the  favourite,  and  often  the  uncon- 
scious butt  of  his  fellow-officers,  who  entertained  themselves 
with  his  eccentricities.  He  was  in  some  of  the  hardest  service 
in  the  peninsula,  and  distinguished  himself  by  his  gallantry. 
When  the  intervals  of  duty  permitted,  he  was  fond  of  roving 
about  the  country,  visiting  noted  places,  and  was  extremely 
fond  of  Moorish  ruins.  When  at  his  quarters,  he  was  a  great 
scribbler,  and  passed  much  of  his  leisure  with  his  pen  in  his 
hand. 

"  As  I  was  a  much  younger  officer,  and  a  very  young  man, 
he  took  me,  in  a  manner,  under  his  care,  and  we  became  close 
friends.  He  used  often  to  read  his  writings  to  me,  having  a 
great  confidence  in  my  taste,  for  I  always  praised  them. 
Poor  fellow !  he  was  shot  down  close  by  me,  at  Waterloo.  We 
lay  wounded  together  for  some  time,  during  a  hard  contest 
that  took  place  near  at  hand.  As  I  was  least  hurt,  I  tried  to 
relieve  him,  and  to  stanch  the  blood  which  flowed  from  a 
wound  in  his  breast.  He  lay  with  his  head  in  my  lap,  and 
looked  up  thankfully  in  my  face,  but  shook  his  head  faintly, 
and  made  a  sign  that  it  was  all  over  with  him ;  and,  indeed,  he 


THE  STUDENT  OF  BALAMANCA.  101 

died  a  few  minutes  afterwards,  just  as  our  men  had  repulsed 
the  enemy,  and  came  to  our  relief.  I  have  his  favourite  dog  and 
his  pistols  to  this  day,  and  several  of  his  manuscripts,  which  he 
gave  to  me  at  different  times.  The  one  I  am  now  going  to 
read,  is  a  tale  which  he  said  he  wrote  in  Spain,  during  the  time 
that  he  lay  ill  of  a  wound  received  at  Salamanca." 

We  now  arranged  ourselves  to  hear  the  story.  The  captain 
Seated  himself  on  the  sofa,  beside  the  fair  Julia,  who  I  had 
noticed  to  be  somewhat  affected  by  the  picture  he  had  care- 
lessly drawn  of  wounds  and  dangers  in  a  field  of  battle.  She 
now  leaned  her  arm  fondly  on  his  shoulder,  and  her  eye  glis- 
tened as  it  rested  on  the  manuscript  of  the  poor  literary 
dragoon.  Lady  Lillycraft  buried  herself  in  a  deep,  well- 
cushioned  elbow-chair.  Her  dogs  were  nestled  on  soft  mats  at 
her  feet ;  and  the  gallant  general  took  his  station  in  an  arm- 
chair, at  her  side,  and  toyed  with  her  elegantly  ornamented 
work-bag.  The  rest  of  the  circle  being  all  equally  well  accom- 
modated, the  captain  began  his  story ;  a  copy  of  which  I  have 
procured  for  the  benefit  of  the  reader. 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA. 

What  a  life  do  I  lead  with  my  master:  nothing  but  blowing  of  bellowes,  beating  of 
spirits,  and  scraping  of  croslets".  It  is  a  very  secret  science,  for  none  almost  can 
understand  the  language  of  it.  Sublimation,  almigation,  calcination,  rubification, 
albifieation.  and  fermentation;  with  as  many  terraes  impossible  to  be  uttered  as  the 
arte  to  be  compassed.— Lilly's  Gallathea. 

Once  upon  a  time,  in  the  ancient  city  of  Granada,  there 
sojourned  a  young  man  of  the  name  of  Antonio  de  Castros. 
He  wore  the  garb  of  a  student  of  Salamanca,  and  was  pursuing 
a  course  of  reading  in  the  library  of  the  university;  and,  at  in- 
tervals of  leisure,  indulging  his  curiosity  by  exa mining  those 
remains  of  Moorish  magnificence  for  which  Granada  is  re 
nowned. 

Whilst  occupied  in  his  studies,  he  frequently  noticed  an  old 
man  of  a  singular  appearance,  who  was  likewise  a  visitor  to 
the  library.  He  was  lean  and  withered,  though  apparently 
more  from  study  than  from  age.  His  eyes,  though  bright  and 
visionary,  were  sunk  in  his  head,  and  thrown  into  shade  by 
overhanging  eyebrows.     His  dress  was  always  the  same:  a 


102  BRACKBRIDOE  HALL. 

black  doublet;  a  short  black  cloak,  \  jry  rusty  and  threadbare; 
a  small  ruff  and  a  large  overshadowing  hat. 

His  appetite  for  knowledge  seemed  insatiable.  He  would 
pass  whole  days  in  the  library,  absorbed  in  study,  consulting  a 
multiplicity  of  authors,  as  though  he  were  pursuing  some 
interesting  subject  through  all  its  ramifications ;  so  that,  in 
general,  when  evening  came,  he  was  almost  buried  among 
books  and  manuscripts. 

The  curiosity  of  Antomo  was  excited,  and  he  inquired  of  the 
attendants  concerning  the  stranger.  No  one  could  give  him 
any  information,  excepting  that  he  had  been  for  some  time 
past  a  casual  frequenter  of  the  library ;  that  his  reading  lay 
chiefly  among  works  treating  of  the  occult  sciences,  and  that 
h<>  was  particularly  curious  in  his  inquiries  after  Arabian 
manuscripts.  They  added,  that  he  never  held  communication 
with  any  one,  excepting  to  ask  for  particular  works ;  that,  after 
a  fit  of  studious  application,  he  would  disappear  for  several 
days,  and  even  weeks,  and  when  he  revisited  the  library,  he 
would  look  more  withered  and  haggard  than  ever.  The  student 
felt  interested  by  this  account ;  he  was  leading  rather  a  desul- 
tory life,  and  had  all  that  capricious  curiosity  which  springs  up 
in  idleness.  He  determined  to  make  himself  acquainted  with 
this  book-worm,  and  find  out  who  and  what  he  was. 

The  next  time  that  he  saw  the  old  man  at  the  library,  he 
commenced  his  approaches  by  requesting  permission  to  look 
into  one  of  the  volumes  with  which  the  unknown  appeared  to 
have  done.  The  latter  merely  bowed  his  head,  in  token  of 
assent.  After  pretending  to  look  through  the  volume  with 
great  attention,  he  returned  it  with  many  acknowledgments. 
The  stranger  made  no  reply. 

"May  I  ask,  senor,"  said  Antonio,  with  some  hesitation, 
"may  I  ask  what  you  are  searching  after  in  all  these  books?" 

The  old  man  raised  his  head,  with  an  expression  of  surprise, 
at  having  his  studies  interrupted  for  the  first  time,  and  by  so 
intrusive  a  question.  He  surveyed  the  student  with  a  side 
glance  from  head  to  foot:  "Wisdom,  my  son,"  said  he,  calmly; 
"and  the  search  requires  every  moment  of  my  attention."  He 
then  cast  his  eyes  upon  his  book,  and  resumed  his  studies. 

"But,  father,"  said  Antonio,  "cannot  you  spare  a  moment  to 
point  out  the  road  to  others?  It  is  to  experienced  travellers 
like  you,  that  we  strangers  in  the  paths  of  knowledge  must 
look  for  directions  on  our  journey. " 

The  stranger  looked  disturbed :  "I  have  not  time  enough,  my 


THE  8TUDEHT  OF  SALAMANCA.  103 

son,  to  learn/*  said  he,  '"11111011  less  to  teach.  I  am  ignorant 
myself  of  the  path  of  true  knowledge ;  how  then  can  I  show  it 
to  others?" 

"Well,  but,  father—" 

'•  Senor,"  said  the  old  man,  mildly,  but  earnestly,  "you  must 
see  that  I  have  but  few  steps  more  to  the  grave.  In  that  short 
space  have  I  to  accomplish  the  whole  business  of  my  existence. 
I  have  no  time  for  words;  every  word  is  as  one  grain  of  sand 
of  my  glass  wasted.  Suffer  me  to  be  alone." 
There  was  no  replying  to  so  complete  a  closing  of  the  door  of 
itimacy.  The  student  found  himself  calmly  but  totally 
?pulsed.  Though  curious  and  inquisitive,  yet  he  was  naturally 
todest,  and  on  after-thoughts  he  blushed  at  his  own  intrusion, 
is  mind  soon  became  occupied  by  other  objects.  He  passed 
several  days  wandering  among  the  mouldering  piles  of  Moorish 
architecture,  those  melancholy  monuments  of  an  elegant  and 
voluptuous  people.  He  paced  the  deserted  halls  of  the  Alham- 
bra.  the  paradise  of  the  Moorish  kings.  He  visited  the  great 
court  of  the  lions,  famous  for  the  perfidious  massacre  of  the 
gallant  Abencerrages.  He  gazed  with  admiration  at  its  mosaic 
cupolas,  gorgeously  painted  in  gold  and  azure;  its  basins  of 
marble,  its  alabaster  vase,  supported  by  lions,  and  storied  with 
inscriptions. 

His  imagination  kindled  as  he  wandered  among  these  scenes. 
They  were  calculated  to  awaken  all  the  enthusiasm  of  a  youth- 
ful mind.  "Most  of  the  halls  have  anciently  been  beautified  by 
fountains.  The  fine  taste  of  the  Arabs  delighted  in  the  spark- 
ling purity  and  reviving  freshness  of  water;  and  they  erected. 
as  it  were,  altars  on  every  side,  to  that  delicate  element.  Poe- 
try mingles  with  architecture  in  the  Alhambra.  It  breathes 
along  the  very  walls.  "Wherever  Antonio  turned  his  eye,  he 
beheld  inscriptions  in  Arabic,  wherein  the  perpetuity  of  Moorish 
power  and  splendour  within  these  walls  was  confidently  pre- 
dicted. Alas !  how  has  the  prophecy  been  falsified !  "Many  of 
the  basins,  where  the  fountains  had  once  thrown  up  their  spark 
ling  showers,  were  dry  and  dusty.  Some  of  the  palaces  were 
turned  into  gloomy  convents,  and  the  barefoot  monk  paced 
through  those  courts,  which  had  once  glittered  with  the  array. 
and  echoed  to  the  music,  of  "Moorish  chivalry. 

In  the  course  of  his  rambles,  the  student  more  than  once 
encountered  the  old  man  of  the  library.  He  was  always  al<  roe, 
and  so  full  of  thought  as  not  to  notice  any  one  about  him.  He 
appeared  to  be  intent  upon  studying  those  half -buried  inscrip- 


104  BBACEBRIDQB  HA  Li.. 

tions,  which  are  found,  here  and  there,  among  the  Moorish 
ruins,  and  seem  to  murmur  from  the  earth  the  tale  of  former 
greatness.  The  greater  part  of  these  have  since  been  trans- 
lated;  but  they  were  supposed  by  many  at  the  time,  to  contain 
symbolical  revelations,  and  golden  maxims  of  the  Arabian  sages 
and  astrologers.  As  Antonio  saw  the  stranger  apparently 
deciphering  these  inscriptions,  he  felt  an  eager  longing  to  make 
his  acquaintance,  and  to  participate  in  his  curious  researches; 
but  the  repulse  he  had  met  with  at  the  library  deterred  him 
from  making  any  further  advances. 

He  had  directed  his  steps  one  evening  to  the  sacred  mount, 
which  overlooks  the  beautiful  valley  watered  by  the  Darro,  the 
fertile  plain  of  the  Vega,  and  all  that  rich  diversity  of  vale 
and  mountain  that  surrounds  Granada  with  an  earthly  para- 
dise. It  was  twilight  when  he  found  himself  at  the  place, 
where,  at  the  present  day,  are  situated  the  chapels,  known  by 
the  name  of  the  Sacred  Furnaces.  They  are  so  called  from 
grottoes,  in  which  some  of  the  primitive  saints  are  said  to  have 
been  burnt.  At  the  time  of  Antonio's  visit,  the  place  was  an 
object  of  much  curiosity.  In  an  excavation  of  these  grottoes, 
several  manuscripts  had  recently  been  discovered,  engraved 
on  plates  of  lead.  They  were  written  in  the  Arabian  language, 
excepting  one,  which  was  in  unknown  characters.  The  Pope 
had  issued  a  bull,  forbidding  any  one,  under  pain  of  excom- 
munication, to  speak  of  these  manuscripts.  The  prohibition 
had  only  excited  the  greater  curiosity;  and  many  reports 
were  whispered  about,  that  these  manuscripts  contained  trea- 
sures of  dark  and  forbidden  knowledge. 

As  Antonio  was  examining  the  place  from  whence  these  mys- 
terious manuscripts  had  been  drawn,  he  again  observed  the 
old  man  of  the  library  wandering  among  the  ruins.  His 
curiosity  was  now  fully  awakened ;  the  time  and  place  served 
to  stimulate  it.  He  resolved  to  watch  this  groper  after  secret 
and  forgotten  lore,  and  to  trace  him  to  his  habitation.  There 
was  something  like  adventure  in  the  thing,  that  charmed  his 
romantic  disposition.  He  followed  the  stranger,  therefore,  at 
a  little  distance ;  at  first  cautiously,  but  he  soon  observed  him 
to  be  so  wrapped  in  his  own  thoughts,  as  to  take  little  heed  of 
external  objects. 

They  passed  along  the  skirts  of  the  mountain,  and  then  by 
the  shady  banks  of  the  Darro.  They  pursued  their  way,  for 
some  distance  from  Granada,  along  a  lonely  road  that  led 
among  the  hills.     The  gloom  of  evening  was  gathering,  and  it 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.  105 

was  quite  dark  when  the  stranger  stopped  at  the  portal  of  a 
solitary  mansion. 

It  appeared  to  be  a  mere  wing,  or  ruined  fragment,  of  what 
had  once  been  a  pile  of  some  consequence.  The  walls  were  of 
great  thickness;  the  windows  narrow,  and  generally  secured 
by  iron  bars.  The  door  was  of  planks,  studded  with  iron 
spikes,  and  had  been  of  great  strength,  though  at  present  it 
was  much  decayed.  At  one  end  of  the  mansion  was  a  ruinous 
tower,  in  the  Moorish  style  of  architecture.  The  edifice  had 
probably  been  a  country  retreat,  or  castle  of  pleasure,  during 
the  occupation  of  Granada  by  the  Moors,  and  rendered  suffi- 
ciently strong  to  withstand  any  casual  assault  in  those  warlike 
times. 

The  old  man  knocked  at  the  portal.  A  light  appeared  at  a 
small  window  just  above  it,  and  a  female  head  looked  out :  it 
might  have  served  as  a  model  for  one  of  Raphael's  saints. 
The  hair  was  beautifully  braided,  and  gathered  in  a  silken  net ; 
and  the  complexion,  as  well  as  could  be  judged  from  the  light, 
was  that  soft,  rich  brunette,  so  becoming  in  southern  beauty. 

"It  is  I,  my  child,"  said  the  old  man.  The  face  instantly 
disappeared,  and  soon  after  a  wicket-door  in  the  large  portal 
opened.  Antonio,  who  had  ventured  near  to  the  building, 
caught  a  transient  sight  of  a  delicate  female  form.  A  pair  of 
fine  black  eyes  darted  a  look  of  surprise  at  seeing  a  stranger 
hovering  near,  and  the  door  was  precipitately  closed. 

There  was  something  in  th/s  sudden  gleam  of  beauty  that 
wonderfully  struck  the  imagination  of  the  student.  It  was 
like  a  brilliant,  flashing  from  its  dark  casket.  He  sauntered 
about,  regarding  the  gloomy  pile  with  increasing  interest.  A 
few  simple,  mid  notes,  from  among  some  rocks  and  trees  at  a 
little  distance,  attracted  his  attention.  He  found  there  a 
group  of  Gitanas,  a  vagabond  ^psy  race,  which  at  that  time 
abounded  in  Spain,  and  lived  in  hovels  and  caves  of  the  hills 
about  the  neighbourhood  of  Granada.  Some  were  busy  about  a 
fire,  and  others  were  listening  to  the  uncouth  music  which  one 
of  their  companions,  seated  on  a  ledge  of  the  rock,  was  making 
with  a  split  reed. 

Antonio  endeavoured  to  obtain  some  information  of  them, 
concerning  the  old  building  and  its  inhabitants.  The  one  who 
appeared  to  be  their  spokesman  was  a  gaunt  fellow,  with  a 
subtle  gait,  a  whispering  voice,  and  a  sinister  roll  of  the  eye. 
He  shrugged  his  shoulders  on  the  student's  inquiries,  and  said 
that  all  was  not  right  in  that  building.     An  old  man  inhabited 


1 06  B IL 1 OJSBRID  GK  II A  LL. 

it,  whom  nobody  knew,  and  whose  family  appeared  to  be  only  a 
daughter  and  a  female  servant.  He  and  his  companions,  he 
added,  lived  up  among  the  neighbouring  hills;  and  as  they  had 
been  about  at  night,  they  had  often  seen  strange  lights,  and 
heard  strange  sounds  from  the  tower.  Some  of  the  country 
people,  who  worked  in  the  vineyards  among  the  hills,  believed 
the  old  man  to  be  one  that  dealt  in  the  black  art,  and  were  not 
over-fond  of  passing  near  the  tower  at  night;  "but  for  our 
said  the  Gitano,  "  we  are  not  a  people  that  trouble  our- 
selves much  with  fears  of  that  kind." 

The  student  endeavoured  to  gain  more  precise  information, 
but  they  had  none  to  furnish  him.  They  began  to  be  solicitous 
for  a  compensation  for  what  they  had^ already  imparted;  and, 
recollecting  the  loneliness  of  the  place,  and  the  vagabond 
character  of  his  companions,  he  was  glad  to  give  them  a  gratu- 
ity, and  to  hasten  homewards. 

He  sat  down  to  his  studies,  but  his  brain  was  too  full  of  what 
he  had  seen  and  heard ;  his  eye  was  upon  the  page,  but  his 
fancy  still  returned  to  the  tower;  and  he  was  continually 
picturing  the  little  window,  with  the  beautiful  head  peeping 
out ;  or  the  door  half  open,  and  the  nymph-like  form  within. 
He  retired  to  bed,  but  the  same  object  haunted  his  dreams. 
He  was  young  and  susceptible;  and  the  excited  state  of  his 
feelings,  from  wandering  among  the  abodes  of  departed  grace 
and  gallantry,  had  predisposed  him  for  a  sudden  impression 
from  female  beauty. 

The  next  morning,  he  strolled  again  in  the  direction  of  the 
tower.  It  was  still  more  forlorn,  by  the  broad  glare  of  day, 
than  in  the  gloom  of  evening.  The  walls  were  crumbling,  and 
weeds  and  moss  were  growing  in  every  crevice.  It  had  the 
look  of  a  prison,  rather  than  a  dwelling-house.  In  one  angle, 
however,  he  remarked  a  window  which  seemed  an  exception 
to  the  surrounding  squalidness.  There  was  a  curtain  drawn 
within  it,  and  flowers  standing  on  the  window-stone.  Whilst 
he  was  looking  at  it,  the  curtain  was  partially  withdrawn,  and 
a  delicate  white  arm,  of  the  most  beautiful  roundness,  was 
put  forth  to  water  the  flowers. 

The  student  made  a  noise,  to  attract  the  attention  of  the  fair 
florist.  He  succeeded.  The  curtain  was  further  drawn,  and 
he  had  a  glance  of  the  same  lovely  face  he  had  seen  the  even- 
ing before ;  it  was  but  a  mere  glance — the  curtain  again  fell, 
and  the  casement  closed.  All  this  was  calculated  to  excite  the 
feelings  of  a  romantic  youth.     Had  he  seen  the  unknown  under 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.  107 

other  circumstances,  it  is  probable  that  he  would  not  have  been 
struck  with  her  beauty ;  but  this  appearance  of  being  shut  up 
and  kept  apart,  gave  her  the  value  of  a  treasured  gem.  He 
passed  and  repassed  before  the  house  several  times  in  the 
course  of  the  day,  but  saw  nothing  more.  He  was  there  again 
in  the  evening.  The  whole  aspect  of  the  house  was  dreary. 
The  narrow  windows  emitted  no  rays  of  cheerful  light,  to  indi- 
cate that  there  was  social  life  within.  Antonio  listened  at  the 
portal,  but  no  sound  of  voices  reached  his  ear.  Just  then  he 
heard  the  clapping  to  of  a  distant  door,  and  fearing  to  be  de- 
tected in  the  unworthy  act  of  eavesdropping,  he  precipitately 
drew  off  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  road,  and  stood  in  the  sha- 
dow of  a  ruined  archway. 

He  now  remarked  a  light  from  a  window  in  the  tower.  It 
was  fitful  and  changeable ;  commonly  feeble  and  yellowish,  as 
if  from  a  lamp ;  with  an  occasional  glare  of  some  vivid  metallic 
colour,  followed  by  a  dusky  glow.  A  column  of  dense  smoke 
would  now  and  then  rise  in  the  air,  and  hang  like  a  canopy 
over  the  tower.  There  was  altogether  such  a  loneliness  and 
seeming  mystery  about  the  building  and  its  inhabitants,  that 
Antonio  was  half  inclined  to  indulge  the  country  people's 
notions,  and  to  fancy  it  the  den  of  some  powerful  sorcerer,  and 
the  fair  damsel  he  had  seen  to  be  some  spell-bound  beauty. 

After  some  time  had  elapsed,  a  light  appeared  in  the  window 
where  he  had  seen  the  beautiful  arm.  The  curtain  was  down, 
but  it  was  so  thin  that  he  could  perceive  the  shadow  of  some 
one  passing  and  repassing  between  it  and  the  light.  He 
fancied  that  he  could  distinguish  that  the  form  was  delicate ; 
and,  from  the  alacrity  of  its  movements,  it  was  evidently 
youthful.  He  had  not  a  doubt  but  this  was  the  bedc-hamber  of 
his  beautiful  unknown. 

Presently  he  heard  the  sound  of  a  guitar,  and  a  female  voice 
Hinging.  He  drew  near  cautiously,  and  listened.  It  was  a 
plaintive  Moorish  ballad,  and  he  recognized  in  it  the  laments 
tions  of  one  of  the  Abencerrages  on  leaving  the  walls  of  lovely 
Granada,  It  was  full  of  passion  and  tenderness.  It  spoke  of 
the  delights  of  early  life ;  the  hours  of  love  it  had  enjoyed  on 
the  banks  of  the  Darro,  and  among  the  blissful  abodes  of  the 
Alhambra.  It  bewailed  the  fallen  honours  of  the  Abencem 
and  imprecated  vengeance  on  their  oppressors.  Antonio  was 
affected  by  the  music.  It  singularly  coincided  with  the  place. 
It  was  like  the  voice  of  past  times  echoed  in  the  present,  and 
breathing  among  the  monuments  of  its  departed  glory. 


108  BRACEBRIBOE  HALL. 

The  voice  ceased;  after  a  time  tne  light  disappeared,  and  all 
was  still.  "She  sleeps!"  said  Antonio,  fondly.  He  lingered 
about  the  building,  with  the  devotion  with  which  a  lover 
lingers  about  the  bower  of  sleeping  beauty.  The  rising  moon 
threw  its  silver  beams  on  the  gray  walls,  and  glittered  on  the 
casement.  The  late  gloomy  landscape  gradually  became 
flooded  with  its  radiance.  Finding,  therefore,  that  he  could  no 
longer  move  about  in  obscurity,  and  fearful  that  his  loiterings 
might  be  observed,  he  reluctantly  retired. 

The  curiosity  which  had  at  first  drawn  the  young  man  to  the 
tower,  was  now  seconded  by  feelings  of  a  more  romantic  kind. 
His  studies  were  almost  entirely  abandoned.  He  maintained  a 
kind  of  blockade  of  the  old  mansion;  he  would  take  a  book 
with  him,  and  pass  a  great  part  of  the  day  under  the  trees  in  its 
vicinity ;  keeping  a  vigilant  eye  upon  it,  and  endeavouring  to 
ascertain  what  were  the  walks  of  his  mysterious  charmer.  He 
found,  however,  that  she  never  went  out  except  to  mass,  when 
she  was  accompanied  by  her  father.  He  waited  at  the  door  of 
the  church,  and  offered  her  the  holy  water,  in  the  hope  of 
touching  her  hand;  a  little  office  of  gallantry  common  in 
Catholic  countries.  She,  however,  modestly  declined  without 
raising  her  eyes  to  see  who  made  the  offer,  and  always  took  it 
herself  from  the  font.  She  was  attentive  in  her  devotion ;  her 
eyes  were  never  taken  from  the  altar  or  the  priest ;  and,  on 
returning  home,  her  countenance  was  almost  entirely  con- 
cealed by  her  mantilla. 

Antonio  had  now  carried  on  the  pursuit  for  several  days,  and 
was  hourly  getting  more  and  more  interested  in  the  chase,  but 
never  a  step  nearer  to  the  game.  His  lurkings  about  the  house 
had  probably  been  noticed,  for  he  no  longer  saw  the  fair  face 
at  the  window,  nor  the  white  arm  put  forth  to  water  the 
flowers.  His  only  consolation  was  to  repair  nightly  to  his  post 
of  observation,  and  listen  to  her  warbling ;  and  if  by  chance  he 
could  catch  a  sight  of  her  shadow,  passing  and  repassing  before 
the  window,  he  thought  himself  most  fortunate. 

As  he  was  indulging  in  one  of  these  evening  vigils,  which  were 
complete  revels  of  the  imagination,  the  sound  of  approaching 
footsteps  made  him  withdraw  into  the  deep  shadow  of  the 
ruined  archway  opposite  to  the  tower.  A  cavalier  approached, 
wrapped  in  a  large  Spanish  cloak.  He  paused  under  the  win- 
dow of  the  tower,  and  after  a  little  while  began  a  serenade, 
accompanied  by  his  guitar,  in  the  usual  style  of  Spanish  gal- 
lantry.    His  voice  was  rich  and  manly ;  he  touched  the  instru- 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.  109 

ment  with  skill,  and  sang  with  amorous  and  impassioned  elo- 
quence.    The  plume  of  his  hat  was  buckled  by  jewels  that 
sparkled  in  the  moon-beams ;  and  as  he  played  on  the  guitar 
his  cloak  falling  off  from  one  shoulder,  showed  him  to  be  richly 
dressed.     It  was  evident  that  he  was  a  person  of  rank. 

The  idea  now  flashed  across  Antonio's  mind,  that  the  affec- 
tions of  his  unknown  beauty  might  be  engaged.  She  was 
young,  and  doubtless  susceptible ;  and  it  was  not  in  the  nature 
of  Spanish  females  to  be  deaf  and  insensible  to  music  and  admi- 
ration. The  surmise  brought  with  it  a  feeling  of  dreariness. 
There  was  a  pleasant  dream  of  several  days  suddenly  dispelled. 
He  had  never  before  experienced  any  thing  of  the  tender  pas- 
sion; and,  as  its  morning  dreams  are  always  delightful,  he 
would  fain  have  continued  in  the  delusion. 

"But  what  have  I  to  do  with  her  attachments?"  thought  he; 
"I  have  no  claim  on  her  heart,  nor  even  on  her  acquaintance. 
How  do  I  know  that  she  is  worthy  of  affection?  Or  if  she  is, 
must  not  so  gallant  a  lover  as  this,  with  his  jewels,  his  rank, 
and  his  detestable  music,  have  completely  captivated  her? 
What  idle  humour  is  this  that  I  have  fallen  into?  I  must  again 
to  my  books.  Study,  study,  will  soon  chase  away  all  these  idle 
fancies !" 

The  more  he  thought,  however,  the  more  he  became  entangled 
in  the  spell  which  his  lively  imagination  had  woven  round  him ; 

id  now  that  a  rival  had  appeared,  in  addition  to  the  other 

jtacles  that  environed  this  enchanted  beauty,  she  appeared 
m  times  more  lovely  and  desirable.  It  was  some  slight  conso- 
lation to  him  to  perceive  that  the  gallantry  of  the  unknown 
met  with  no  apparent  return  from  the  tower.  The  light  at  the 
window  was  extinguished.  The  curtain  remained  undrawn, 
and  none  of  the  customary  signals  were  given  to  intimate  that 
the  serenade  was  accepted. 

The  cavalier  lingered  for  some  time  about  the  place,  and  sang 
several  other  tender  airs  with  a  taste  and  feeling  that  made 
Antonio's  heart  ache ;  at  length  he  slowly  retired.  The  student 
remained  with  folded  arms,  leaning  against  the  ruined  arch, 
endeavouring  to  summon  up  resolution  enough  to  depart ;  but 
there  was  a  romantic  fascination  that  still  enchained  him  to  the 
place.  '  '  It  is  the  last  time, "  said  he,  willing  to  compromise 
between  his  feelings  and  his  judgment,  "it  is  the  last  time; 
then  let  me  enjoy  the  dream  a  few  moments  longer." 

As  his  eye  ranged  about  the  old  building  to  take  a  farewell 
look,  he  observed  the  strange  light  in  the  tower,  which  he  had 


HO  BRACEBRTDQE  HALL. 

noticed  on  a  former  occasion.  It  kept  beaming  up,  and  declin 
ing,  as  before.  A  pillar  of  smoke  rose  in  the  air,  and  hung  in 
sable  volumes.  It  was  evident  the  old  man  was  busied  in  some 
of  those  operations  that  had  gained  Mm  the  reputation  of  a 
sorcerer  throughout  the  neighbourhood. 

Suddenly  an  intense  and  brilliant  glare  shone  through  the 
casement,  followed  by  a  loud  report,  and  then  a  fierce  and 
ruddy  glow.  A  figure  appeared  at  the  window,  uttering  cries 
of  agony  or  alarm,  but  immediately  disappeared,  and  a  body 
of  smoke  and  flame  whirled  out  of  the  narrow  aperture.  An- 
tonio rushed  to  the  portal,  and  knocked  at  it  with  vehemence. 
He  was  only  answered  by  loud  shrieks,  and  found  that  the 
females  were  already  in  helpless  consternation.  With  an  exer- 
tion of  desperate  strength  he  forced  the  wicket  from  its  hinges, 
and  rushed  into  the  house. 

He  found  himself  in  a  small  vaulted  hall,  and,  by  the  light  of 
the  moon  which  entered  at  the  door,  he  saw  a  staircase  to  the 
left.  He  hurried  up  it  to  a  narrow  corridor,  through  which 
was  rolling  a  volume  of  smoke.  He  found  here  the  two  females 
in  a  frantic  state  of  alarm ;  one  of  them  clasped  her  hands,  and 
implored  him  to  save  her  father. 

The  corridor  terminated  in  a  spiral  flight  of  steps,  leading  up 
to  the  tower.  He  sprang  up  it  to  a  small  door,  through  the 
chinks  of  which  came  a  glow  of  light,  and  smoke  was  spuming 
out.  He  burst  it  open,  and 'found  himself  in  an  antique  vaulted 
chamber,  furnished  with  a  furnace  and  various  chemical  appa- 
ratus. A  shattered  retort  lay  on  the  stone  floor ;  a  quantity  of 
combustibles,  nearly  consumed,  with  various  half -burnt  books 
and  papers,  were  sending  up  an  expiring  flame,  and  filling  the 
chamber  with  stifling  smoke.  Just  within  the  threshold  lay 
the  reputed  conjurer.  He*  was  bleeding,  his  clothes  were 
scorched,  and  he  appeared  lif  eless.  Antonio  caught  him  up,  and 
bore  him  down  the  stairs  to  a  chamber,  in  which  there  was  a 
light,  and  laid  him  on  a  bed.  The  female  domestic  was  de- 
spatched for  such  appliances  as  the  house  afforded ;  but  the 
daughter  threw  herself  frantically  beside  her  parent,  and  could 
not  be  reasoned  out  of  her  alarm.  Her  dress  was  all  in  disor- 
der ;  her  dishevelled  hair  hung  in  rich  confusion  about  her  neck 
and  bosom,  and  never  was  there  beheld  a  lovelier  picture  of 
terror  and  affliction. 

The  skilful  assiduities  of  the  scholar  soon  produced  signs  of 
returning  animation  in  his  patient.  The  old  man's  wounds, 
though  severe,  were  not  dangerous.     They  had  evidently  been 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.  \\\ 

produced  by  the  bursting  of  the  retort ;  in  his  bewilderment  he 
had  been  enveloped  in  the  stiff  irg  metallic  vapours,  which  had 
overpowered  his  feeble  frame,  and  had  not  Antonio  arrived  to 
his  assistance,  it  is  possible  he  might  never  have  recovered. 

By  slow  degrees  he  came  to  his  senses.  He  looked  about 
with  a  bewildered  air  at  the  chamber,  the  agitated  group  around, 
and  the  student  who  was  leaning  over  him. 

"  Where  am  I?"  said  he  wildly. 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice,  his  daughter  uttered  a  faint  excla- 
mation of  delight.  "  My  poor  Inez!'1  said  he,  embracing  her; 
then,  putting  his  hand  to  his  head,  and  taking  it  away  stained 
with  blood,  he  seemed  suddenly  to  recollect  himself,  and  to  be 
overcome  with  emotion. 

"  Ah !"  cried  he,  ' '  all  is  over  with  me !  all  gone !  all  vanished  [ 
gone  in  a  moment!  the  labour  of  a  lifetime  lost!" 

His  daughter  attempted  to  soothe  him,  but  he  became  slight- 
ly delirious,  and  raved  incoherently  about  malignant  demons, 
and  about  the  habitation  of  the  green  Hon  being  destroyed. 
His  wounds  being  dressed,  and  such  other  remedies  adminis- 
tered as  his  situation  required,  he  sunk  into  a  state  of  quiet. 
Antonio  now  turned  his  attention  to  the  daughter,  whose  suf- 
ferings had  been  little  inferior  to  those  of  her  father.  Having 
with  great  difficulty  succeeded  in  tranquillizing  her  fears,  he 
endeavoured  to  prevail  upon  her  to  retire,  and  seek  the  repose 
so  necessary  to  her  frame,  proffering  to  remain  by  her  father 
until  morning.  "I  am  a  stranger, "  said  he,  "it  is  true,  and 
my  offer  may  appear  intrusive ;  but  I  see  you  are  lonely  and 
helpless,  and  I  cannot  help  venturing  over  the  limits  of  mere 
ceremony.  Should  you  feel  any  scruple  or  doubt,  however,  say 
but  a  word,  and  I  will  instantly  retire." 

There  was  a  frankness,  a  kindness,  and  a  modesty,  mingled 
in  Antonio's  deportment,  that  inspired  instant  confidence ;  and 
his  simple  scholar's  garb  was  a  recommendation  in  the  house 
of  poverty.  The  females  consented  to  resign  the  sufferer  to  Ins 
care,  as  they  would  be  the  better  able  to  attend  to  him  on  the 
morrow.  On  retiring,  the  old  domestic  was  profuse  in  her 
benedictions ;  the  daughter  only  looked  her  thanks;  but  as 
they  shone  through  the  tears  that  filled  her  fine  black  eyes,  the 
student  thought  them  a  thousand  times  the  most  eloquent. 

Here,  then,  he  was,  By  a  singular  turn  of  chance,  completely 
housed  within  this  mysterious  mansion.  When  left  to  himself, 
and  the  bustle  of  the  scene  was  over,  his  heart  throbbed  as  he 
looked  round  the  chamber  in  which  Ik   was  sitting.     It  \v;«s  the 


112  BBACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

daughter's  room,  the  promised  land  toward  which  he  had  cast 
so  many  a  longing  gaze.  The  furniture  was  old,  and  had  prob- 
ably belonged  to  the  building  in  its  prosperous  days;  but 
every  thing  was  arranged  with  propriety.  The  flowers  that  he 
had  seen  her  attend  stood  in  the  window;  a  guitar  leaned 
against  a  table,  on  which  stood  a  crucifix,  and  before  it  lay  a 
missal  and  a  rosary.  There  reigned  an  air  of  purity  and 
serenity  about  this  little  nestling-place  of  innocence ;  it  was  the 
emblem  of  a  chaste  and  quiet  mind.  Some  few  articles  of 
female  dress  lay  on  the  chairs ;  and  there  was  the  very  bed  on 
which  she  had  slept  —the  pillow  on  which  her  soft  cheek  had 
reclined!  The  poor  scholar  was  treading  enchanted  ground; 
for  what  fairy  land  has  more  of  magic  in  it,  than  the  bed- 
.chamber  of  innocence  and  beauty  ? 

From  various  expressions  of  the  old  man  in  his  ravings,  and 
from  what  he  had  noticed  on  a  subsequent  visit  to  the  tower, 
to  see  that  the  fire  was  extinguished,  Antonio  had  gathered 
that  his  patient  was  an  alchymist.  The  philosophers  stone 
was  an  objeet  eagerly  sought  after  by  visionaries  in  those 
days;  but  in  consequence  of  the  superstitious  prejudices  of  the 
times,  and  the  frequent  persecutions  of  its  votaries,  they  were 
apt  to  pursue  their  experiments  in  secret;  in  lonely  houses,  in 
caverns  and  ruins,  or  in  the  privacy  of  cloistered  cells. 

In  the  course  of  the  night,  the  old  man  had  several  fits  of 
restlessness  and  delirium ;  he  would  call  out  upon  Theophras- 
tus,  and  Geber,  and  Albertus  Magnus,  and  other  sages  of  his 
art ;  and  anon  would  murmur  about  fermentation  and  projec- 
tion, until,  toward  daylight,  he  once  more  sunk  into  a  salutary 
sleep.  When  the  morning  sun  darted  his  rays  into  the  case- 
ment, the  fair  Inez,  attended  by  the  female  domestic,  came 
blushing  into  the  chamber.  The  student  now  took  his  leave, 
having  himself  need  of  repose,  but  obtaining  ready  permission 
to  return  and  inquire  after  the  sufferer. 

When  he  called  again,  he  found  the  alchymist  languid  and  in 
pain,  but  apparently  suffering  more  in  mind  than  in  body.  His 
delirium  had  left  him,  and  he  had  been  informed  of  the  particu- 
lars of  his  deliverance,  and  of  the  subsequent  attentions  of  the 
scholar.  He  could  do  little  more  than  look  his  thanks,  but 
Antonio  did  not  require  them;  his  own  heart  repaid  him  for 
all  that  he  had  done,  and  he  almost  rejoiced  in  the  disaster  that 
had  gained  him  an  entrance  into  this  mysterious  habitation. 
The  alchymist  was  so  helpless  as  to  need  much  assistance; 
Antonio  remained  with  him,  therefore,  the  greater  part  of  the 


THE  STUDENT  0*   HALAMAJSCA.  113 

day.  He  repeated  his  visit  the  next  day,  and  the  next.  Every 
day  his  company  seemed  more  pleasing  to  the  invalid;  and 
every  day  he  felt  his  interest  in  the  latter  increasing.  Perhaps 
the  presence  of  the  daughter  might  have  been  at  the  bottom  of 
this  solicitude. 

He  had  frequent  and  long  conversations  with  the  alchymist. 
He  found  him,  as  men  of  his  pursuits  were  apt  to  be,  a  mixture 
of  enthusiasm  and  simplicity;  of  curious  and  extensive  reading 
on  points  of  little  utility,  with  great  inattention  to  the  every 
day  occurrences  of  life,  and  profound  ignorance  of  the  world. 
He  was  deeply  versed  in  singular  and  obscure  branches  of 
knowledge,  and  much  given  to  visionary  speculations.  Anto- 
nio, whose  mind  was  of  a  romantic  cast,  had  himself  given 
some  attention  to  the  occult  sciences,  and  he  entered  upon  these 
themes  with  an  ardour  that  delighted  the  philosopher.  Their 
conversations  frequently  turned  upon  astrology,  divination, 
and  the  great  secret.  The  old  man  would  forget  his  aches  and 
wounds,  rise  up  like  a  spectre  in  his  bed,  and  kindle  into  elo- 
quence on  his  favourite  topics.  When  gently  admonished  of  his 
situation,  it  would  but  prompt  him  to  another  sally  of  thought. 

"  Alas,  rny  son!"  he  would  say,  "is  not  this  very  decrepitude 
and  suffering  another  proof  of  the  importance  of  those  secrets 
with  winch  we  are  surrounded?  Why  are  we  trammelled  by 
disease,  withered  by  old  age,  and  our  spirits  quenched,  as  it 
were,  within  us,  but  because  we  have  lost  tjhose  secrets  of  life 
and  youth  which  were  known  to  our  parents  before  their  fall  ? 
To  regain  these,  have  philosophers  been  ever  since  aspiring; 
but  just  as  they  are  on  the  point  of  securing  the  precious 
secrets  for  ever,  the  brief  period  of  life  is  at  an  end ;  they  die, 
and  with  them  all  their  wisdom  and  experience.  '  Nothing, '  as 
De  Xuysment  observes,  '  nothing  is  wanting  for  man's  perfec- 
tion but  a  longer  life,  less  crossed  with  sorrows  and  maladies, 
to  the  attaining  of  the  full  and  perfect  knowledge  of  things. ' " 

At  length  Antonio  so  far  gained  on  the  heart  of  his  patient, 
as  to  draw  from  him  the  outlines  of  his  story. 

Felix  de  Vasques,  the  alchymist,  was  a  native  of  Castile,  and 
of  an  ancient  and  honourable  line.  Earl}'  in  life  he  had  married 
a  beautiful  female,  a  descendant  from  one  of  the  Moorish  fami- 
lies. The  marriage  displeased  his  father,  who  considered  the 
pure  Spanish  blood  contaminated  by  this  foreign  mixture.  It 
is  true,  the  lady  traced  her  descent  from  one  of  the  Abencer- 
rages,  the  most  gallant  of  Moorish  cavaliers,  who  had  embraced 
the  Christian  faith  on  being  exiled  from  the  walls  of  Granada. 


114  BBACEBRIDOS  HALL. 

The  injured  pride  of  the  father,  however,  was  not  to  be 
appeased.  He  never  saw  his  son  afterwards,  and  on  dying 
left  him  but  a  scanty  portion  of  his  estate ;  bequeathing  the  resi- 
due, in  the  piety  and  bitterness  o*  uis  heart,  to  the  erection  of 
convents,  and  the  performance  of  masses  for  souls  in  purga- 
tory. Don  Felix  resided  for  a  long  time  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  Valladolid,  in  a  state  of  embarrassment  and  obscurity.  He 
devoted  himself  to  intense  study,  having,  while  at  the  univer- 
sity of  Salamanca,  imbibed  a  taste  for  the  secret  sciences.  He 
was  enthusiastic  and  speculative;  he  went  on  from  one  branch 
of  knowledge  to  another,  until  he  became  zealous  in  the  search 
after  the  grand  Arcanum. 

He  had  at  first  engaged  in  the  pursuit  with  the  hopes  of  rais- 
ing himself  from  his  present  obscurity,  and  resuming  the  rank 
and  dignity  to  which  his  birth  entitled  him ;  but,  as  usual,  it 
ended  in  absorbing  every  thought,  and  becoming  the  busi- 
ness of  his  existence.  He  was  at  length  aroused  from  this 
mental  abstraction,  by  the  calamities  of  his  household.  A 
malignant  fever  swept  off  his  wife  and  all  his  children,  except- 
ing an  infant  daughter.  These  losses  for  a  time  overwhelmed 
and  stupefied  him.  His  home  had  in  a  manner  died  away  from 
around  him,  and  he  felt  lonely  and  forlorn.  When  his  spirit 
revived  within  him,  he  determined  to  abandon  the  scene  of  his 
humiliation  and  disaster;  to  bear  away  the  child  that  was  still 
left  him  beyond  the  scene  of  contagion,  and  never  to  return 
to  Castile  until  he  should  ,be  enabled  to  reclaim  the  honours  of 
his  line. 

He  had  ever  since  been  wandering  and  unsettled  in  his  abode ; 
— sometimes  the  resident  of  populous  cities,  at  other  times  of 
alsolute  solitudes.  He  had  searched  libraries,  meditated  on 
inscriptions,  visited  adepts  of  different  countries,  and  sought 
to  gather  and  concentrate  the  rays  which  had  been  thrown  by. 
various  minds  upon  the  secrets  of  alchymy.  He  had  at  one 
time  travelled  quite  to  Padua  to  search  for  the  manuscripts  of 
Pietro  d'Abano,  and  to  inspect  an  urn  which  had  been  dug  up 
near  Este,  supposed  to  have  been  buried  by  Maximus  Olybius, 
and  to  have  contained  the  grand  elixir.* 

*  This  urn  was  found  in  1533.  It  contained  a  lesser  one,  in  which  was  a  burning 
lamp  betwixt  two  small  vials,  the  one  of  gold,  the  other  of  silver,  both  of  them  full 
of  a  very  clear  liquor.  On  the  largest  was  an  inscription,  stating  that  Maximus 
Olybius  shut  up  in  this  small  vessel  elements  which  he  had  prepared  with  great  toil. 
There  were  many  disquisitions  among  the  learned  on  the  subject.  It  was  the  most 
received  opinion,  that  this  Maximus  Olybius  was  an  inhabitant  of  Padua,  that  he 


THE  STUDENT  OF  8ALAMA2TCA.  nf> 

While  at  Padua,  he  had  met  with  an  adept  versed  in  Arabian 
lore,  who  talked  of  the  invaluable  manuscripts  that  must  re- 
main in  the  Spanish  libraries,  preserved  from  the  spoils  of  the 
Moorish  academies  and  universities ;  of  the  probability  of  meet- 
ing with  precious  unpublished  writings  of  Geber,  and  Alfara- 
bius,  and  Avicenna,  the  great  physicians  of  the  Arabian  schools, 
who,  it  was  well  known,  had  treated  much  of  alchymy ;  but, 
above  all,  he  spoke  of  the  Arabian  tablets  of  lead,  which  had 
recently  been  dug  up  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Granada,  and 
which,  it  was  confidently  believed  among  adepts,  contained 
the  lost  secrets  of  the  art. 

The  indefatigable  alchymist  once  more  bent  his  steps  for 
Spain,  full  of  renovated  hope.  He  had  made  his  way  to  Gra- 
nada :  he  had  wearied  himself  in  the  study  of  Arabic,  in  decipher- 
ing inscriptions,  in  rummaging  libraries,  and  exploring  every 
possible  trace  left  by  the  Arabian  sages. 

In  all  his  wanderings,  he  had  been  accompanied  by  Inez 
through  the  rough  and  the  smooth,  the  pleasant  and  the  ad- 
verse; never  complaining,  but  rather  seeking  to  soothe  his 
cares  by  her  innocent  and  playful  caresses.  Her  instruction 
had  been  the  employment  and  the  delight  of  his  hours  of  relax- 
ation. She  had  grown  up  while  they  were  wandering,  and  had 
scarcely  ever  known  any  home  but  by  his  side.  He  was  family, 
friends,  home,  everything  to  her.  He  had  carried  her  in  his 
arms,  when  they  first  began  their  wayfaring ;  had  nestled  her, 
as  an  eagle  does  its  young,  among  the  rocky  heights  of  the  Sierra 
Morena ;  she  had  sported  about  him  in  childhood,  in  the  soli- 
tudes of  the  Bateucas ;  had  followed  him,  as  a  lamb  does  the 
shepherd,  over  the  rugged  Pyrenees,  and  into  the  fair  plains 
of  Languedoc ;  and  now  she  was  grown  up  to  support  his  feeble 
steps  among  the  ruined  abodes  oi'  her  maternal  ancestors. 

His  property  had  gradually  wasted  away,  in  the  course  of 
his  travels  and  his  experiments.  Still  hope,  the  constant  at- 
tendant of  the  alchymist,  had  led  him  on ;  ever  on  the  point  of 
reaping  the  reward  of  his  labours,  and  ever  disappointed.  With 
the  credulity  that  often  attended  his  art,  he  attributed  many 
of  his  disappointments  to  the  machination  of  the  malignant 
spirits  that  beset  the  paths  of  the  alchymist  and  torment  him 
in  his  solitary  labours.    "  It  is  their  constant  endeavour, "  he  ob- 

had  discovered  the  great  secret,  and  that  these  vessels  contained  liquor,  one  to 
transmute  metals  to  gold,  and  other  to  silver.  The  peasants  who  found  the  urns, 
imagining  this  precious  liquor  to  be  common  water,  spilt  every  drop,  so  that  tbfl 
art  of  transmuting  metals  remains  as  much  a  secret  as  ever. 


116  BllACEBUlDGfi  HALL. 

served,  "to  close  up  every  avenue  to  those  sublime  truths, 
which  would  enable  man  to  rise  above  the  abject  state  into 
which  he  has  fallen,  and  to  return  to  his  original  perfection." 
To  the  evil  offices  of  these  demons,  he  attributed  his  late  dis- 
aster. He  had  been  on  the  very  verge  of  the  glorious  discovery ; 
never  were  the  indications  more  completely  auspicious ;  all  was 
going  on  prosperously,  when,  at  the  critical  moment  which 
should  have  crowned  his  labours  with  success,  and  have  placed 
fiim  at  the  very  summit  of  human  power  and  felicity,  the 
bursting  of  a  retort  had  reduced  his  laboratory  and  himself  to 
ruins. 

"I  must  now,"  said  he,  "give  up  at  the  very  threshold  of 
success.  My  books  and  papers  are  burnt;  my  apparatus  is 
broken.  I  am  too  old  to  bear  up  against  these  evils.  The 
ardour  that  once  inspired  me  is  gone ;  my  poor  frame  is  ex- 
hausted by  study  and  watchfulness,  and  this  last  misfortune 
has  hurried  me  towards  the  grave."  He  concluded  in  a  tone 
of  deep  dejection.  Antonio  endeavoured  to  comfort  and  reas- 
sure him ;  but  the  poor  alchymist  had  for  once  awakened  to  a 
consciousness  of  the  worldly  ills  that  were  gathering  around 
him,  and  had  sunk  into  despondency.  After  a  pause,  and  some 
thoughtf ulness  and  perplexity  of  brow,  Antonio  ventured  to^ 
make  a  propc » 

"I  have  long,"  said  he,  "been  filled  with  a  love  for  the  secret 
sciences,  but  have  felt  too  ignorant  and  diffident  to  give  myself 
up  to  them.  You  have  acquired  experience ;  you  have  amassed 
the  knowledge  of  a  lifetime;  it  were  a  pity  it  should  be  thrown 
away.  You  say  you  are  too  old  to  renew  the  toils  of  the  labo- 
ratory ;  suffer  me  to  undertake  them.  Add  your  knowledge  to 
my  youth  and  activity,  and  what  shall  we  not  accomplish?  As 
a  probationary  fee,  and  a  fund  on  which  to  proceed,  I  will  bring 
into  the  common  stock  a  sum  of  gold,  the  residue  of  a  legacy, 
winch  has  enabled  me  to  complete  my  education.  A  poor  scholar 
cannot  boast  much ;  but  I  trust  we  shall  soon  put  ourselves  be- 
yond the  reach  of  want ;  and  if  we  should  fail,  why,  I  must 
depend,  like  other  scholars,  upon  my  brains  to  carry  me  through 
the  world." 

The  philosopher's  spirits,  however,  were  more  depressed  than 
the  student  had  imagined.  This  last  shock,  following  in  the 
rear  of  so  many  disappointments,  had  almost  destroyed  the 
reaction  of  his  mind.  The  fire  of  an  enthusiast,  hoivever,  is 
never  so  low  but  that  it  may  be  blown  again  into  a  flame.  By 
degrees,  the  old  man  was  cheered  and  reanimated  by  the  buoy 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.  117 

ancy  and  ardour  of  his  sanguine  companion.  He  at  length 
agreed  to  accept  of  the  services  of  the  student,  and  once  more 
to  renew  his  experiments.  He  objected,  however,  to  using  the 
student's  gold,  notwithstanding  that  his  own  was  nearly  ex- 
hausted; but  this  objection  was  soon  overcome;  the  student 
insisted  on  making  it  a  common  stock  and  common  cause; — 
and  then  how  absurd  was  any  delicacy  about  such  a  trifle,  with 
men  who  looked  forward  to  discovering  the  philosopher's  stone ! 

While,  therefore,  the  alchymist  was  slowly  recovering,  the 
student  busied  himself  in  getting  the  laboratory  once  more  in 
order.  It  was  strewed  with  the  wrecks  of  retorts  and  alembics, 
with  old  crucibles,  boxes  and  phials  of  powders  and  tinctures, 
and  half -burnt  books  and  manuscripts. 

As  soon  as  the  old  man  was  sufficiently  recovered,  the  studies 
and  experiments  were  renewed.  The  student  became  a  privi- 
leged and  frequent  visitor,  and  was  indefatigable  in  his  toils  in  the 
laboratory.  The  philosopher  daily  derived  new  zeal  and  spirits 
from  the  animation  of  his  disciple.  He  was  now  enabled  to  pros- 
ecute the  enterprise  with  continued  exertion,  having  so  active  a 
coadjutor  to  divide  the  toil.  While  he  was  poring  over  the  writ- 
ings of  Sandivogius,  and  Philaleth.es,  and  Dominus  de  Nuys- 
ment,  and  endeavouring  to  comprehend  the  symbolical  language 
in  which  they  have  locked  up  their  mysteries,  Antonio  would 
occupy  himself  among  the  retorts  and  crucibles,  and  keep  the 
furnace  in  a  perpetual  glow. 

With  all  his  zeal,  however,  for  the  discovery  of  the  golden 
art.  the  feelings  of  the  student  had  not  cooled  as  to  the  object 
that  first  drew  him  to  this  ruinous  mansion.  During  the  old 
man's  illness,  he  had  frequent  opportunities  of  being  near  the 
daughter;  and  every  day  made  him  more  sensible  to  her 
charms.  There  was  a  pure  simplicity,  and  an  almost  passive 
gentleness,  in  her  manners ;  yet  with  all  this  was  mingled  3ome- 
thing,  whether  mere  maiden  shyness,  or  a  consciousness  of  high 
descent,  or  a  dash  of  Castilian  pride,  or  perhaps  all  uniteJ, 
that  prevented  undue  familiarity,  and  made  her  difficult  of 
approach.  The  danger  of  her  father,  and  the  measures  to  be 
taken  for  his  relief,  had  at  first  overcome  this  coyness  and 
reserve;  but  as  he  recovered  and  her  alarm  subsided,  she 
seemed  to  shiink  from  the  familiarity  she  had  indulged  with 
the  youthful  stranger,  and  to  become  every  day  more  shy  and 
silent. 

Antonio  had  read  many  books,  but  this  was  the  first  volume 
of  womankind  that  he  had  ever  studied.     He  had  been  capti- 


118  BRACtiBllIDGIC  HALL. 

vated  with  the  very  title-page;  but  the  further  he  read,  the 
more  he  was  delighted.  She  seemed  formed  to  love ;  her  soft 
black  eye  rolled  languidly  under  its  long  silken  lashes,  and 
wherever  it  turned,  it  would  linger  and  repose ;  there  was  ten- 
derness in  every  beam.  To  him  alone  she  was  reserved  and 
distant.  Now  that  the  common  cares  of  the  sick-room  were  at 
an  end,  he  saw  little  more  of  her  than  before  his  admission  to 
the  house.  Sometimes  he  met  her  on  his  way  to  and  from  the 
laboratory,  and  at  such  times  there  was  ever  a  smile  and  a 
blush;  but,  after  a  simple  sriutation,  she  glided  on  and  dis- 
appeared. 

"Tis  plain,"  thought  Antonio,  "my  presence  is  indifferent, 
if  not  irksome  to  her.  She  has  noticed  my  admiration,  and  is 
determined  to  discourage  it ;  nothing  but  a  feeling  of  gratitude 
prevents  her  treating  me  with  marked  distaste— and  then  has 
she  not  another  lover,  rich,  gallant,  splendid,  musical?  how  can 
I  suppose  she  would  turn  her  eyes  from  so  brilliant  a  cavalier, 
to  a  poor  obscure  student,  raking  among  the  cinders  of  her 
father's  laboratory ?" 

Indeed,  the  idea  of  the  amorous  serenader  continually 
haunted  his  mind.  He  felt  convinced  that  he  was  a  favoured 
lover;  yet,  if  so,  why  did  he  not  frequent  the  tower?— why  did 
he  not  make  his  approaches  by  noon-day?  There  was  mystery 
in  this  eavesdropping  and  musical  courtship.  Surely  Inez 
could  not  be  encouraging  a  secret  intrigue !  Oh !  no !  she  was 
too  artless,  too  pure,  too  ingenuous!  But  then  the  Spanish 
females  were  so  prone  to  love  and  intrigue;  and  music  and 
moonlight  were  so  seductive,  and  Inez  had  such  a  tender  soul 
languishing  in  every  look. — "Oh!"  would  the  poor  scholar 
exclaim,  clasping  his  hands,  "oh,  that  I  could  but  once  behold 
those  loving  eyes  beaming  on  me  with  affection !" 

It  is  incredible  to  those  who  have  not  experienced  it,  on  what 
scanty  aliment  human  life  and  human  love  may  be  supported, 
A  dry  crust,  thrown  now  and  then  to  a  starving  man,  will  give 
him  a  new  lease  of  existence ;  and  a  faint  smile,  or  a  kind  look, 
bestowed  at  casual  intervals,  will  keep  a  lover  loving  on,  when 
a  man  in  his  sober  senses  would  despair. 

When  Antonio  found  himself  alone  in  the  laboratory,  his 
mind  would  be  haunted  by  one  of  these  looks,  or  smiles,  which 
he  had  received  in  passing.  He  would  set  it  in  every  possible 
light,  and  argue  on  it  with  all  the  self -pleasing,  self -teasing  logic 
of  a  lover. 

The  country  around  him  was  enough  to  awaken  that  volup 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.  119 

tuousness  of  feeling  so  favourable  to  the  growth  of  passion. 
The  window  of  the  tower  rose  above  the  trees  of  the  romantic 
valley  of  the  Darro,  and  looked  down  upon  some  of  the  love- 
liest scenery  of  the  Vega,  where  groves  of  citron  and  orange 
were  refreshed  by  cool  springs  and  brooks  of  the  purest  water. 
The  Xenel  and  the  Darro  wound  their  shining  streams  along 
the  plain,  and  gleamed  from  among  its  bowers.  The  surround- 
ing hills  were  covered  with  vineyards,  and  the  mountains, 
crowned  with  snow,  seemed  to  melt  into  the  blue  sky.  The 
delicate  airs  that  played  about  the  tower  were  perfumed  by  the 
fragrance  of  myrtle  and  orange-blossoms,  and  the  ear  was 
charmed  with  the  fond  warbling  of  the  nightingale,  which,  in 
these  happy  regions,  sings  the  whole  day  long.  Sometimes, 
too,  there  was  the  idle  song  of  the  muleteer,  sauntering  along 
the  solitary  road ;  or  the  notes  of  the  guitar,  from  some  group 
of  peasants  dancing  in  the  shade.  All  these  were  enough  to 
fill  the  head  of  the  young  lover  with  poetic  fancies ;  and  Antonio 
would  picture  to  himself  how  he  could  loiter  among  those  happy 
groves,  and  wander  by  those  gentle  rivers,  and  love  away  his 
life  with  Inez. 

He  felt  at  times  impatient  at  his  own  weakness,  and  would 
endeavour  to  brush  away  these  cobwebs  of  the  mind.  He  would 
turn  his  thoughts,  with  sudden  effort,  to  his  occult  studies,  or 
occupy  himself  in  some  perplexing  process ;  but  often,  when  he 
had  partially  succeeded  in  fixing  lus  attention,  the  sound  of 
Inez's  lute,  or  the  soft  notes  of  her  voice,  would  come  stealing 
upon  the  stillness  of  the  chamber,  and,  as  it  were,  float- 
ing round  the  tower.  There  was  no  great  art  in  her  per- 
formance; but  Antonio  thought  he  had  never  heard  music 
comparable  to  this.  It  was  perfect  witchcraft  to  hear  her 
warble  forth  some  of  her  national  melodies ;  those  little  Spanish 
romances  and  Moorish  ballads,  that  transport  the  hearer,  in 
idea,  to  the  banks  of  the  Guadalquivir,  or  the  walls  of  the 
Alhambra,  and  make  him  dream  of  beauties,  and  balconies, 
and  moonlight  serenades. 

Never  was  poor  student  more  sadly  beset  than  Antonio. 
Love  is  a  troublesome  companion  in  a  study,  at  the  best  of 
times ;  but  in  the  laboratory  of  an  alchymist,  his  intrusion  is 
terribly  disastrous.  Instead  of  attending  to  the  retorts  and 
crucibles,  and  watching  the  process  of  some  experiment 
intrusted  to  his  charge,  the  student  would  get  entranced  in  one 
of  these  love-dreams,  from  which  he  would  often  be  aroused  by 
some  fatal  catastrophe.     The  philosopher,  on  returning  frona 


120  BIIACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

his  researches  in  the  libraries,  would  find  every  thing  gone 
wrong,  and  Antonio  in  despair  over  the  ruins  of  the  whole  day's 
work.  The  old  man,  however,  took  all  quietly,  for  his  had  been 
a  life  of  experiment  and  failure. 

"  We  must  have  patience,  my  son,"  would  he  say,  "  as  all  the 
great  masters  that  have  gone  before  us  have  had.  Errors,  and 
accidents,  and  delays  are  what  we  have  to  contend  with.  Did 
not  Pontanus  err  two  hundred  times,  before  he  could  obtain 
even  the  matter  on  which  to  found  his  experiments?  The  great 
Flamel,  too,  did  he  not  labour  four-and-tw-enty  years,  before  he 
ascertained  the  first  agent?  What  difficulties  and  hardships 
did  not  Cartilaeens  encounter,  at  the  very  threshold  of  his  dis- 
coveries? And  Bernard  de  Treves,  even  after  he  had  attained 
a  knowledge  of  all  the  requisites,  was  he  not  delayed  full  three 
years?  What  you  consider  accidents,  my  son,  are  the  machina- 
tions of  our  invisible  enemies.  The  treasures  and  golden  secrets 
of  nature  are  surrounded  by  spirits  hostile  to  man.  The  air 
about  us  teems  with  them.  They  lurk  in  the  fire  of  the  fur- 
nace, in  the  bottom  of  the  crucible,  and  the  alembic,  and  are 
ever  on  the  alert  to  take  advantage  of  those  moments  when  our 
minds  are  wandering  from  intense  meditation  on  the  great 
truth  that  we  are  seeking.  We  must  only  strive  the  more  to 
purify  ourselves  from  those  gross  and  earthly  feelings  which 
becloud  the  soul,  and  prevent  her  from  piercing  into  nature's 
arcana." 

"  Alas!"  thought  Antonio,  "if  to  be  purified  from  all  earthly 
feeling  requires  that  I  should  cease  to  love  Inez,  I  fear  I  shall 
never  discover  the  philosopher's  stone!" 

In  this  way,  matters  went  on  for  some  time,  at  the  alchy- 
mist's.  Day  after  day  was  sending  the  student's  gold  in  vapour 
up  the  chimney ;  every  blast  of  the  furnace  made  him  a  ducat 
the  poorer,  without  apparently  helping  him  a  jot  nearer  to  the 
golden  secret.  Still  the  young  man  stood  by,  and  saw  piece 
afterpiece  disappearing  without  a  murmur:  he  had  daily  an 
opportunity  of  seeing  Inez,  and  felt  as  if  her  favour  would  be 
better  than  silver  or  gold,  and  that  every  smile  was  worth  a 
ducat. 

Sometimes,  in  the  cool  of  the  evening,  when  the  toils  of  the 
laboratory  happened  to  be  suspended,  he  would  walk  with  the 
alchymist  in  what  had  once  been  a  garden  belonging  to  the 
mansion.  There  were  still  the  remains  of  terraces  and  balus- 
trades, and  here  and  there  a  marble  urn,  or  mutilated  statue 
Overturned,  and  buried  among  weeds  and  flowers  run  wild.     It 

" 


TETi   STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.  121 

was  the  favourite  resort  of  the  alchymist  in  his  hours  of  relaxa- 
tion, where  he  would  give  full  scope  to  his  visionary  nights. 
His  rnind  was  tinctured  with  the  Rosicrucian  doctrines.  He 
believed  in  elementary  beings ;  some  favourable,  others  adverse 
to  his  pursuits ;  and,  in  the  exaltation  of  his  fancy,  had  often 
imagined  that  he  held  communion  with  them  in  his  solitary 
walks,  about  the  whispering  groves  and  echoing  walls  of  this 
old  garden. 

When  accompanied  by  Antonio,  he  would  prolong  these 
evening  recreations.  Indeed,  he  sometimes  did  it  out  of  con- 
sideration for  his  disciple,  for  he  feared  lest  his  too  close  applica- 
tion, and  his  incessant  seclusion  in  the  tower,  should  be  injuri- 
ous to  his  health.  He  was  delighted  and  surprised  by  this 
extraordinary  zeal  and  perseverance  in  so  young  a  tyro,  and 
looked  upon  him  as  destined  to  be  one  of  the  great  luminaries 
of  the  art.  Lest  the  student  should  repine  at  the  time  lost  in 
these  relaxations,  the  good  alchymist  would  fill  them  up  with 
wholesome  knowledge,  in  matters  connected  with  their  pursuits ; 
and  would  walk  up  and  down  the  alleys  with  Ms  disciple,  im- 
parting oral  instruction,  like  an  ancient  philosopher.  In  all  his 
visionary  schemes,  there  breathed  a  spirit  of  lofty,  though  chi- 
merical philanthropy,  that  won  the  a  J  miration  of  the  scholar. 
Nothing  sordid  nor  sensual,  nothing  petty  nor  selfish,  seemed 
to  enter  into  his  views,  in  respect  to  the  grand  discoveries  he  was 
anticipating.  On  the  contrary,  his  imagination  kindled  with 
conceptions  of  widely  dispensated  happiness.  He  looked  for- 
ward to  the  time  when  he  should  be  able  to  go  about  the  earth, 
relieving  the  indigent,  comforting  the  distressed,  and.  by  his 
unlimited  means,  devising  and  executing  plans  for  the  com- 
plete extirpation  of  pev-erty,  and  all  its  attendant  sufferings 
and  crimes.  Never  were  grander  schemes  for  general  good,  for 
the  distribution  of  boundless  wealth  and  universal  competence, 
devised  than  by  this  poor,  indigent  alchymist  in  his  ruined 
tower. 

Antonio  would  attend  these  peripatetic  lectures  with  all  the 
ardour  of  a  devotee;  but  there  was  another  circumstance  which 
may  have  given  a  secret  charm  to  them.  The  garden  was  the 
resort  also  of  Inez,  where  she  took  her  walks  of  recreation;  the 
only  exercise  that  her  secluded  life  permitted.  As  Antonio  was 
duteously  pacing  by  the  side  of  his  instructor,  he  would  often 
catch  a  glimpse  of  the  daughter,  walking  pensively  about 
the  alleys  in  the  soft  twilight.  Sometimes  they  would  meet  her 
unexpectedly,  and  the  heart  of  the  student  would  throb  with 


122  lUlACKBPdiXiK    I/ALL 

agitation.    A  blush,  too,  would  crimson  the  cheek  of  Inez,  but 
still  she  passed  on  and  never  joined  them. 

He  had  remained  one  evening  until  rather  a  late  hour  with 
the  alchymist  in  this  favourite  resort.  It  was  a  delightful  night 
after  a  sultry  day,  and  the  balmy  air  of  the  garden  was  pecu- 
liarly reviving.  The  old  man  was  seated  on  a  fragment  of  a 
pedestal,  looking  like  a  part  of  the  ruin  on  which  he  sat.  He 
was  edifying  his  pupil  by  long  lessons  of  wisdom  from  the 
stars,  as  they  shone  out  with  brilliant  lustre  in  the  dark-blue 
vault  of  a  southern  sky ;  for  he  was  deeply  versed  in  Behmen, 
and  other  of  the  Rosicrucians,  and  talked  much  of  the  signa- 
ture of  earthly  things  and  passing  events,  which  may  be  dis- 
cerned in  the  heavens ;  of  the  power  of  the  stars  over  corporeal 
beings,  and  their  influence  on  the  fortunes  of  the  sons  of 
men. 

By  degrees  the  moon  rose  and  shed  her  gleaming  light  among 
the  groves.  Antonio  apparently  listened  with  fixed  attention 
to  the  sage,  but  his  ear  was  drinking  in  the  melody  of  Inez's 
voice,  who  was  singing  to  her  lute  in  one  of  the  moonlight 
glades  of  the  garden.  The  old  man,  having  exhausted  his  theme, 
sat  gazing  in  silent  reverie  at  the  heavens.  Antonio  could  not 
resist  an  inclination  to  steal  a  look  at  this  coy  beauty,  who  was 
thus  playing  the  part  of  the  nightingale,  so  sequestered  and 
musical.  Leaving  the  alchymist  in  his  celestial  reverie,  he 
stole  gently  along  one  of  the  alleys.  The  music  had  ceased,  and 
he  thought  he  heard  the  sound  of  voices.  He  came  to  an  angle 
of  a  copse  that  had  screened  a  kind  of  green  recess,  ornamented 
by  a  marble  fountain.  The  moon  shone  full  upon  the  place, 
and  by  its  light  he  beheld  his  unknown,  serenading  rival  at  the 
feet  of  Inez.  He  was  detaining  her  by  the  hand,  which  he 
covered  with  kisses ;  but  at  sight  of  Antonio  he  started  up  and 
half  drew  his  sword,  while  Inez,  disengaged,  fled  back  to  the 
house. 

All  the  jealous  doubts  and  fears  of  Antonio  were  now  con- 
firmed. He  did  not  remain  to  encounter  the  resentment  of  his 
happy  rival  at  being  thus  interrupted,  but  turned  from  the 
place  in  sudden  wretchedness  of  heart.  That  Inez  should  love 
another,  would  have  been  misery  enough ;  but  that  she  should 
be  capable  of  a  dishonourable  amour,  shocked  him  to  the  soul. 
The  idea  of  deception  in  so  young  and  apparently  artless  a  being, 
brought  with  it  that  sudden  distrust  in  human  nature,  so  sick- 
ening to  a  youthful  and  ingenuous  mind ;  but  when  he  thought 
of  the  kind,  simple  parent  she  was  deceiving,  whose  affections 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.  123 

all  centred  in  her,  he  felt  for  a  moment  a  sentiment  of  indigna- 
tion, and  almost  of  aversion. 

He  found  the  alchymist  still  seated  in  his  visionary  contem- 
plation of  the  moon.  ' '  Come  hither,  my  son, "  said  he,  with 
his  usual  enthusiasm,  "  come,  read  with  me  in  this  vast  volume 
of  wisdom,  thus  nightly  unfolded  for  our  perusal.  Wisely  did 
the  Chaldean  sages  affirm,  that  the  heaven  is  as  a  mystic  page, 
uttering  speech  to  those  who  can  rightly  understand ;  warning 
them  of  good  and  evil,  and  instructing  them  in  the  secret  de- 
crees of  fate.*' 

The  student's  heart  ached  for  his  venerable  master;  and,  for 
a  moment,  he  felt  the  futility  of  his  occult  wisdom.  "Alas! 
poor  old  man!' thought  he,  "of  what  avails  all  thy  study? 
Little  dost  thou  dream,  while  busied  in  airy  speculations  among 
the  stars,  what  a  treason  against  thy  happiness  is  going  on 
under  thine  eyes;  as  it  were,  in  thy  very  bosom!— Oh  Inez! 
Inez !  where  shall  we  look  for  truth  and  innocence,  where  shall 
we  repose  confidence  in  woman,  if  even  you  can  deceiver' 

It  was  a  trite  apostrophe,  such  as  every  lover  makes  when 
he  finds  his  mistress  not  quite  such  a  goddess  as  he  had 
painted  her.  With  the  student,  however,  it  sprung  from 
honest  anguish  of  heart.  He  returned  to  his  lodgings,  in  piti- 
able confusion  of  mind.  He  now  deplored  the  infatuation  that 
had  led  him  on  until  his  feelings  were  so  thoroughly  engaged. 
He  resolved  to  abandon  his  pursuits  at  the  tower,  and  trust  to 
absence  to  dispel  the  fascination  by  which  he  had  been  spell- 
bound. He  no  longer  thirsted  after  the  discovery  of  the  grand 
elixir:  the  dream  of  alchymy  was  over;  for,  without  Inez, 
what  was  the  value  of  the  philosopher's  stone  ? 

He  rose,  after  a  sleepless  night,  with  the  determination  of 
taking  his  leave  of  the  alchymist,  and  tearing  himself  from 
Granada.  For  several  days  did  he  rise  with  the  same  resolu- 
tion, and  every  night  saw  him  come  back  to  his  pillow,  to 
repine  at  his  want  of  resolution,  and  to  make  fresh  determina- 
tions for  the  morrow.  In  the  meanwhile,  he  saw  less  of  Inez 
than  ever.  She  no  longer  walked  in  the  garden,  but  remained 
almost  entirely  in  her  apartment.  When  she  met  him,  she 
blushed  more  than  usual;  and  once  hesitated,  as  if  she  would 
have  spoken;  but.  after  a  temporary  embarrassment,  and  still 
deeper  blushes,  she  made  some  casual  observation,  and  retired. 
Antonio  read,  in  this  confusion,  a  consciousness  of  fault,  and 
of  that  fault's  being  discovered.  "What  could  she  have 
wished  to  communicate?    Perhaps  to  account  for  the  scene  in 


124  BRACEBRIDQE  HALL. 

the  garden : — but  how  can  she  account,  for  it,  or  why  should 
she  account  for  it  to  me?  What  am  I  to  her?— or  rather, 
what  is  she  to  me  ?"  exclaimed  he,  impatie]  ith  a  new 

resolution  to  break  through  these  entanglements  of  the  heart, 
and  fly  from  this  enchanted  spot  for  ever. 

He  was  returning  that  very  night  to  his  lodgings,  full  of  this 
excellent  determination,  when,  in  a  shadowy  part  of  the  road, 
he  passed  a  person  whom  he  recognized,  by  his  height  and 
form,  for  his  rival:  he  was  going  in  the  direction  of  the  tower. 
If  any  lingering  doubts  remained,  here  was  an  opportunity  of 
settling  them  completely.  He  determined  to  follow  this  un- 
known cavalier,  and,  under  favour  of  the  darkness,  observe  his 
movements.  If  he  obtained  access  to  the  tower,  or  in  any  way 
a  favourable  reception,  Antonio  felt  as  if  it  would  be  a  relief  to 
his  mind,  and  would  enable  him  to  fix  his  wavering  resolution. 

The  unknown,  as  he  came  near  the  tower,  was  more  cautious 
and  stealthy  in  his  approaches.  He  was  joined  under  a  clump 
of  trees  by  another  person,  and  they  had  much  whispering 
together.  A  light  was  burning  in  the  chamber  of  Inez;  the 
curtain  was  down,  but  the  casement  was  left  open,  as  the 
night  was  warm.  After  some  time,  the  light  was  extinguished. 
A  CO]  d.      The  cavalier  and  his  com- 

panion remained  under  covert  of  the  trees,  as  if  keeping 
watch.  At  length  they  approached  the  tower,  with  silent  and 
cautious  steps.  The  cavalier  received  a  dark-lantern  from  his 
companion,  and  threw  off  his  cloak.  The  other  then  softly 
brought  something  from  the  clump  of  trees,  which  Antonio 
perceived  to  be  a  light  ladder :  he  placed  it  against  the  wall, 
and  the  serenader  gently  ascended.  A  sickening  sensation 
came  over  Antonio.  Here  was  indeed  a  confirmation  of  every 
fear.  He  was  about  to  leave  the  place,  never  to  return,  when 
he  heard  a  stifled  shriek  from  Inez's  chamber. 

In  an  instant,  the  fellow  that  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  ladder 
lay  prostrate  on  the  ground.  Antonio  wrested  a  stiletto  from 
his  nerveless  hand,  and  hurried  up  the  ladder.  He  sprang  in 
at  the  window,  and  found  Inez  struggling  in  the  grasp  of  his 
fancied  rival;  the  latter,  disturbed  from  his  prey,  caught  up 
his  lantern,  turned  its  light  full  upon  Antonio,  and,  drawing 
his  sword,  made  a  furious  assault ;  luckily  the  student  saw  the 
light  gleam  along  the  blade,  and  parried  the  thrust  with  the 
stiletto.  A  fierce,  but  unequal  combat  ensued.  Antonio  fought 
exposed  to  the  full  glare  of  the  light,  while  his  antagonist  was 
in  shadow:  his  stiletto,  too,  was  but  a  poor  defence  against 


•  nia-.S'l    OF  SALAMANCA.  125 

a  rapier.  He  saw  that  nothing  would  save  nim  but  closing 
with  his  adversary,  and  getting  within  his  weapon:  he  rushed 
furiously  upon  him,  and  gave  him  a  severe  blow  witli  the 
stiletto;  but  received  a  wound  in  return  from  the  shortened 
sword.  At  the  same  moment,  a  blow  was  inflicted  from  be- 
hind, by  the  confederate,  who  had  ascended  the  ladder;  it 
felled  him  to  the  floor,  and  his  antagonists  made  then*  escape. 

By  this  tune,  the  cries  of  Inez  had  brought  her  father  and 
the  domestic  into  the  room.  Antonio  was  found  weltering  in 
his  blood,  and  senseless.  He  was  conveyed  to  the  chamber  of 
the  alchymist,  who  now  repaid  in  kind  the  attentions  whicl 
the  student  had  once  bestowed  upon  him.  Among  his  varied 
knowledge  he  possessed  some  skill  in  surgery,  which  at  this 
moment  was  of  more  value  than  even  his  chymical  lore.  He 
stanched  and  dressed  the  wounds  of  his  disciple,  which  on  ex- 
amination proved  less  desperate  than  he  had  at  first  appre- 
hended. For  a  few  days,  however,  his  case  was  anxious,  and 
a1  tended  with  danger.  The  old  man  watched  over  him  with 
the  affection  of  a  parent.  He  felt  a  double  debt  of  gratitude 
towards  him.  on  account  of  his  daughter  and  himself;  he  loved 
him  too  as  a  faithful  and  zealous  disciple;  and  he  dreaded  lest 
the  world  should  be  deprived  of  the  promising  talents  of  so 
aspiring  an  alchymist. 

An  excellent  constitution  soon  medicined  his  wounds;  and 
there  was  a  balsam  in  the  looks  and  words  of  Inez,  that  had  a 
healing  effect  on  the  still  severer  wounds  which  he  carried  in 
his  heart.  She  displayed  the  strongest  interest  in  his  safety ; 
she  called  him  her  deliverer,  her  preserver.  It  seemed  as  if 
her  grateful  disposition  sought,  in  the  warmth  oi:  its  acknowl- 
edgments, to  repay  him  for  past  coldness.  But  what  most 
contributed  to  Antonio's  recovery,  was  her  explanation  con- 
cerning his  supposed  rival.  It  was  sometime  since  he  haci  first 
I  her  at  church,  and  he  had  ever  since  persecuted  her 
with  his  a  .     He  had  beset  her  in  her  walks,  until  she 

had  been  obliged  to  confine  herself  to  the  house,  when 

accompanied  by  her  father.    He  had  ri  her  with  letters, 

I  every  art  by  wi  could  urge  a  vehement, 

but  el  hslionourablo  suit.    The  scene  in  th< 

den  w  rise  to  her  as  to  Antonio.     Her  per- 

secutor had  been  attracted  by h  .  end  had  found  his  way 

over  a  i  cf  the  well.     lie  had  come  upon  her  una- 

wares; was  dotainin 3  her  by  farce,  and  pleading  his  insulting 
passion,  when  the  appearance  of  the  student  interrupted  hinit 


i£6  HUAVhiiniDUt:  HALL. 

and  enabled  her  to  make  her  escape.  She  had  forborne  to  men- 
tion to  her  father  the  persecution  which  she  suffered;  she 
wished  to  spare  him  unavailing  anxiety  and  distress,  and  had 
determined  to  confine  herself  more  rigorously  to  the  house; 
though  it  appeared  that  even  here  she  had  not  been  safe  from 
his  daring  enterprise. 

Antonio  inquired  whether  she  knew  the  name  of  this  impet- 
ious  admirer?  She  replied  that  he  had  made  his  advances 
under  a  fictitious  name;  but  that  she  had  heard  him  once 
called  by  the  name  of  Don  Ambrosio  de  Loxa. 

Antonio  knew  lnm,  by  report,  for  one  of  the  most  determined 
and  dangerous  libertines  in  all  Granada.  Artful,  accomplished, 
and,  if  he  chose  to  be  so,  insinuating;  but  daring  and  headlong 
in  the  pursuit  of  his  pleasures ;  violent  and  implacable  in  his 
resentments.  He  rejoiced  to  find  that  Inez  had  been  proof 
against  his  seductions,  and  had  been  inspired  with  aversion  by 
his  splendid  profligacy ;  but  he  trembled  to  think  of  the  dangers 
she  had  run,  and  he  felt  solicitude  about  the  dangers  that  must 
yet  environ  her. 

At  present,  however,  it  was  probable  the  enemy  had  a  tem- 
porary quietus.  The  traces  of  blood  had  been  found  for  some 
distance  from  the  ladder,  until  they  were  lost  among  thickets ; 
and  as  nothing  had  been  heard  or  seen  of  him  since,  it  was  con 
eluded  that  he  had  been  seriously  wounded. 

As  the  student  recovered,  from  his  wounds,  he  was  enabled 
to  join  Inez  and  her  father  in  their  domestic  intercourse.  The 
chamber  in  which  they  usually  met  had  probably  been  a  saloon 
of  state  in  former  times.  The  floor  was  of  marble ;  the  walls 
partially  covered  with  remains  of  tapestry ;  the  chairs,  richly 
carved  arid  gilt,  were  crazed  with  age,  and  covered  with  tar- 
nished and  tattered  brocade.  Against  the  wall  hung  a  long 
rusty  rapier,  the  only  relic  that  the  old  man  retained  of  the 
chivalry  of  bis  ancestors.  There  might  have  been  something 
to  provoke  a  smile,  in  the  contrast  between  the  mansion  and 
its  inhabitants;  between  present  poverty  and  the  graces  of 
departed  grandeur ;  but  the  fancy  of  the  student  had  thrown 
so  much  romance  about  the  edifice  and  its  inmates,  that  every 
thing  was  clothed  with  charms.  The  philosopher,  with  his 
broken-down  pride,  and  his  strange  pursuits,  seemed  to  com- 
port with  the  melancholy  ruin  he  inhabited ;  and  there  was  a 
native  elegance  of  spirit  about  the  daughter,  that  showed  she 
would  have  graced  the  mansion  in  its  happier  days. 

What  delicious  moments  were  these  to  the  student!    Inez 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.  127 

was  no  longer  coy  and  reserved.  She  was  naturally  artless 
and  confiding;  though  tne  kind  of  persecution  she  had  experi- 
enced from  one  admirer  had  rendered  her,  for  a  time,  suspi- 
cious and  circumspect  toward  the  other.  She  now  felt  an  en- 
tire confidence  in  the  sincerity  and  worth  of  Antonio,  mingled 
with  an  overflowing  gratitude.  When  her  eyes  met  his,  they 
beamed  with  sympathy  and  kindness ;  and  Antonio,  no  longer 
haunted  by  the  idea  of  a  favoured  rival,  once  more  aspired  to 
success. 

At  these  domestic  meetings,  however,  he  had  little  opportu- 
nity of  paying  his  court,  except  by  looks.  The  alchymist,  sup- 
posing him.  like  himself,  absorbed  in  the  study  of  alchymy, 
endeavoured  to  cheer  the  tediousness  of  his  recovery  by  long 
conversations  on  the  art.  He  even  brought  several  of  his  half- 
burnt  volumes,  which  the  student  had  once  rescued  from  the 
flames,  and  rewarded  him  for  their  preservation,  by  reading 
copious  passages.  He  would  entertain  him  with  the  great  and 
good  acts  of  Flamel,  which  he  effected  through  means  of  the 
philosopher's  stone,  relieving  widows  and  orphans,  founding 
hospitals,  building  churches,  and  what  not;  or  with  the  inter- 
rogatories of  King  Kalid,  and  the  answers  of  Morienus,  the 
Roman  hermit  of  Hierusalem ;  or  the  profound  questions  which 
Elardus,  a  necromancer  of  the  province  of  Catalonia,  put  to 
the  devil,  touching  the  secrets  of  alchymy,  and  the  devil's 
replies. 

All  these  were  couched  in  occult  language,  almost  unintelli- 
gible to  the  unpractised  ear  of  the  disciple.  Indeed,  the  old 
man  delighted  in  the  mystic  phrases  and  symbolical  jargon  in 
which  the  writers  that  have  treated  of  alchymy  have  wrapped 
their  communications;  rendering  them  incomprehensible  ex- 
cept to  the  initiated.  With  what  rapture  would  he  elevate  his 
voice  at  a  triumphant  passage,  announcing  the  grand  dis- 
covery!  '•  Thou  shalt  see,"  would  he  exclaim,  in  the  words  of 
Henry  Kuhnrade,*  "the  stone  of  the  philosophers  four  king) 
go  forth  of  the  bed-chamber  of  his  glassy  sepulchre  into  the 
threatre  of  this  world ;  that  is  to  say.  regenerated  and  made 
perfect,  a  sinning  carbuncle,  a  most  temperate  splendour,  whose 
most  subtle  and  depurated  parts  are  inseparable,  united  into 
one  with  a  concordial  mixture,  exceeding  equal,  transparent  as 
chrystal,  shining  red  like  a  ruby,  permanently  colouring  or  ring- 
ing, fixt  in  all  temptations  or  tryals;  yea,  in  the  examination 


Amphitheatre  of  the  Eternal  Wisdom. 


128  BRACEB1UDGE  HALL. 

of  the  burning  sulphur  itself,  and  the  devouring  waters,  and  in 
the  most  vehement  persecution  of  the  fire,  always  incombusti- 
ble and  permanent  as  a  salamander !" 

The  student  had  a  high  veneration  for  the  fathers  of  alchymy, 
and  a  profound  respect  for  his  instructor ;  but  what  was  Henry 
Kuhnrade,  Geber,  Lully,  or  even  Albertus  Magnus  himself, 
compared  to  the  countenance  of  Inez,  winch  presented  such  a 
page  of  beauty  to  his  perusal?  While,  therefore,  the  good 
alchymist  was  doling  out  knowledge  by  the  hour,  his  disciple 
would  forget  books,  alchymy,  every  thing  but  the  lovely  object 
before  him.  Inez,  too,  unpractised  hi  the  science  of  the  heart, 
-radually  becoming  fascinated  by  the  silent  attentions  of 
her  lover.  Day  by  day,  she  seemed  more  and  more  perplexed 
by  the  kindling  and  strangely  pleasing  emotions  of  her  bosom. 
Her  eye  was  often  cast  down  in  thought.  Blushes  stole  to  her 
cheek  without  any  apparent  cause,  and  light,  half-suppressed 
sighs  would  follow  these  short  fits  of  musing.  Her  little  bal- 
lad <.  though  the  same  that  she  had  always  sung,  yet  breathed 
a  more  tender  spirit.  Either  the  tones  of  her  voice  were  more 
soft  and  touching,  or  some  passages  were  delivered  with  a  feel- 
ing she  had  never  before  given  them.  Antonio,  beside  his  love 
for  the  abstruse  sciences,  had  a  pretty  turn  for  music;  and 
never  did  philosopher  toucn  the  guitar  more  tastefully.  As,  by 
degrees,  he  conquered  the  mutual  embarrassment  that  kept 
them  asunder,  he  ventured  to  accompany  Inez  in  some  of  her 
songs.  He  had  a  voice  full  of  fire  and  tenderness :  as  he  sang, 
one  would  have  thought,  from  the  kindling  blushes  of  his  com- 
panion, that  he  had  been  pleading  his  own  passion  in  her  ear. 
Let  those  who  would  keep  two  youthful  hearts  asunder,  beware 
of  music.  Oh !  this  leaning  over  chairs,  and  conning  the  same 
music-book,  and  entwining  of  voices,  and  melting  away  in 
harmonies ! —the  German  waltz  is  nothing  to  it. 

The  worthy  alchymist  saw  nothing  of  all  this.  His  mind 
could  admit  of  no  idea  that  was  not  connected  with  the  dis- 
covery of  the  grand  arcanum,  and  he  supposed  his  youthful 
coadjutor  equally  devoted.  He  was  a  mere  child  as  to  human 
nature ;  and,  as  to  the  passion  of  love,  whatever  he  might  once 
have  felt  of  it,  he  had  long  since  forgotten  that  there  was  such 
an  idle  passion  in  existence.  But,  while  he  dreamed,  the  silent 
amour  went  on.  The  very  quiet  and  seclusion  of  the  place 
were  favourable  to  the  growth  of  romantic  passion.  The  open- 
ing bud  of  love  was  able  to  put  forth  leaf  by  leaf,  without  an 
adverse  wind  to  check  its  growth.     There  was  neither  officious 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.  129 

friendship  to  chill  by  its  advice,  nor  insidious  envy  to  wither 
by  its  sneers,  nor  an  observing  world  to  look  on  and  stare  it 
out  of  countenance.  There  was  neither  declaration,  nor  vow, 
nor  any  other  form  of  Cupid's  canting  school.  Their  hearts 
mingled  together,  and  understood  each  other  without  the  aid 
of  language.  They  lapsed  into  the  full  current  *of  affection, 
unconscious  of  its  depth,  and  thoughtless  of  the  rocks  that 
might  lurk  beneath  its  surface.  Happy  lovers!  who  wanted 
nothing  to  make  their  felicity  complete,  but  the  discovery  of 
the  philosopher's  stone ! 

At  length,  Antonio's  health  was  sufficiently  restored  to  ena- 
ble him  to  return  to  his  lodgings  in  Granada,  He  felt  uneasy, 
however,  at  leaving  the  tower,  while  lurking  danger  might 
surround  its  almost  defenceless  inmates.  He  dreaded  lest  Don 
Ambrosio,  recovered  from  his  wounds,  might  plot  some  new 
attempt,  by  secret  art,  or  open  violence.  From  all  that  he  had 
heard,  he  knew  kim  to  be  too  implacable  to  suffer  his  defeat  to 
pass  unavenged,  and  too  rash  and  fearless,  when  his  arts  were 
unavailing,  to  stop  at  any  daring  deed  in  the  accomplishment 
of  his  purposes.  He  urged  his  apprehensions  to  the  alchymist 
and  his  daughter,  and  proposed  that  they  should  abandon  the 
dangerous  vicinity  of  Granada. 

"I  have  relations,"  said  he,  "in  Valentia,  poor  indeed,  but 
worthy  and  affectionate.  Among  them  you  will  find  friend- 
ship and  quiet,  and  we  may  there  pursue  our  labours  unmo- 
lested. "  He  went  on  to  paint  the  beauties  and  delights  of  Va- 
lentia. with  all  the  fondness  of  a  native,  and  all  the  eloquence 
with  which  a  lover  paints  the  fields  and  groves  which  he  is 
picturing  as  the  future  scenes  of  his  happiness.  His  eloquence, 
backed  by  the  apprehensions  of  Inez,  was  successful  with  the 
alchymist.  who.  indeed,  had  led  too  unsettled  a  life  to  be  par- 
ticular about  the  place  of  his  residence ;  and  it  was  determined, 
that,  as  soon  as  Antonio's  health  was  perfectly  restored,  they 
should  abandon  the  tower,  and  seek  the  delicious  neighbourhood 
of  Valentia.* 

*  Here  are  the  strongest  silks,  the  sweetest  wines,  the  exeellent'st  almonds,  the 
best  oyls.  and  beautifull'st  females  of  all  Spain.  The  very  bruit  animals  make 
themselves  beds  of  rosemary,  at)  1  other  fragrant  flowers  hereabouts;  and  when  one 
is  at  sea.  if  the  winde  blow  from  the  shore,  he  may  smell  this  soyl  before  he  comes 
in  sight  of  it.  many  leagues  off.  by  the  strong  odoriferous  scent  it  easts.  As  it  is  the 
nu.st  pleasant,  so  it  Is  also  the  temperat'st  dime  of  all  Spain,  and  they  commonly 
call  it  the  second  Italy;  which  made  the  Moors,  whereof  many  thousands  were  dis 
terr'd.  and  banish'd  hence  to  Barbary,  to  think  that  Paradise  was  in  that  part  of 
the  heavens  which  hung  over  this  citie. —Howell's  Letters, 


130  BRACKLUUDGE  11  ALL. 

To  recruit  his  strength,  the  student  suspended  his  toils  in  the 
laboratory,  and  spent  the  few  remaining  days,  before  departure, 
in  taking  a  farewell  look  at  the  enchanting  environs  of  Grana- 
da. He  felt  returning  health  and  vigour,  as  he  inhaled  the  pure 
temperate  breezes  that  play  about  its  hills ;  and  the  happy  state 
of  his  mind  contributed  to  his  rapid  recovery.  Inez  was  often 
the  companion  of  his  walks.  Her  descent,  by  the  mother's  side, 
from  one  of  the  ancient  Moorish  families,  gave  her  an  interest 
in  this  once  favourite  seat  of  Arabian  power.  She  gazed  with 
enthusiasm  upon  its  magnificent  monuments,  and  her  memory 
was  filled  with  the  traditional  tales  and  ballads  of  Moorish 
chivalry.  Indeed,  the  solitary  life  she  had  led,  and  the  vision- 
ary turn  of  her  father's  mind,  had  produced  an  effect  upon  her 
character,  and  given  it  a  tinge  of  what,  in  modern  days,  would 
be  termed  romance.  All  this  was  called  into  full  force  by  this 
new  passage ;  for,  when  a  woman  first  begins  to  love,  life  is  all 
romance  to  her. 

In  one  of  their  evening  strolls,  they  had  ascended  to  the 
mountain  of  the  Sun,  where  is  situated  the  Generaliffe,  the 
palace  of  pleasure,  in  the  days  of  Moorish  dominion,  but  now  a 
gloomy  convent  of  Capuchins.  They  had  wandered  about  its 
garden,  among  groves  of  orange,  citron,  and  cypress,  where 
the  waters,  leaping  in  torrents,  or  gushing  in  fountains,  or 
tossed  aloft  in  sparkling  jets,  fill  the  air  with  music  and  fresh- 
ness. There  is  a  melancholy  mingled  with  all  the  beauties  of 
this  garden,  that  gradually  stole  over  the  feelings  of  the  lovers. 
The  place  is  full  of  the  sad  story  of  past  times.  It  was  the 
favourite  abode  of  the  lovely  queen  of  Granada,  where  she  was 
surrounded  by  the  delights  of  a  gay  and  voluptuous  court.  It 
was  here,  too,  amidst  her  own  bowers  of  roses,  that  her  slan- 
derers laid  the  base  story  of  her  dishonour,  and  struck  a  fatal 
blow  to  the  line  of  the  gallant  Abencerrages. 

The  whole  garden  has  a  look  of  ruin  and  neglect.  Many  of 
the  fountains  are  dry  and  broken ;  the  streams  have  wandered 
from  their  marble  channels,  and  are  choked  by  weeds  and  yel- 
low leaves.  The  reed  whistles  to  the  wind,  where  it  had  once 
sported  among  roses,  and  shaken  perfume  from  the  orange- 
blossom.  The  convent-bell  flings  its  sullen  sound,  or  the 
drowsy  vesper-hymn  floats  along  these  solitudes,  which  once 
resounded  with  the  song,  and  the  dance,  and  the  lover's  sere- 
nade. Well  may  the  Moors  lament  over  the  loss  of  this  earthly 
paradise;  well  may  they  remember  it  in  their  prayers,  and 
beseech  Heaven  to  restore  it  to  the  faithful;  well  may  their 


TEE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.  131 

ambassadors  smite  their  breasts  when  they  behold  these  monu- 
ments of  their  race,  and  sit  down  and  weep  among  the  fading 
glories  of  Granada ! 

It  is  impossible  to  wander  about  these  scenes  of  departed  love 
and  gayety,  and  not  feel  the  tenderness  of  the  heart  awakened. 
It  was  then  that  Antonio  first  ventured  to  breathe  his  passion, 
and  to  express  by  words  what  his  eyes  had  long  since  so  elo- 
quently revealed.  He  made  his  avowal  with  fervour,  but  with 
frankness.  He  had  no  gay  prospects  to  hold  out:  he  was  a 
poor  scholar,  dependent  on  his  "  good  spirits  to  feed  and  clothe 
him.''  But  a  woman  in  love  is  no  interested  calculator.  Inez 
listened  to  him  with  downcast  eyes,  but  in  them  was  a  humid 
gleam  that  showed  her  heart  was  with  him.  She  had  no  pru- 
dery in  her  nature ;  and  she  had  not  been  sufficiently  in  society 
to  acquire  it.  She  loved  him  with  all  the  absence  of  worldli- 
ness  of  a  genuine  woman;  and,  amidst  timid  smiles  and 
blushes,  he  drew  from  her  a  modest  acknowledgment  of  her 
affection. 

They  wandered  about  the  garden,  with  that  sweet  intoxica- 
tion of  the  soul  which  none  but  happy  lovers  know.  The  world 
about  them  was  all  fairy  land ;  and,  indeed,  it  spread  forth  one 
of  its  fairest  scenes  before  their  eyes,  as  if  to  fulfil  their  dream 
of  earthly  happiness.  They  looked  out  from  between  groves  of 
orange,  upon  the  towers  of  Granada  below  them ;  the  magnifi- 
cent plain  of  the  Vega  beyond,  streaked  with  evening  sunshine, 
and  the  distant  hills  tinted  with  rosy  and  purple  hues:  it 
seemed  an  emblem  of  the  happy  future,  that  love  and  hope 
were  decking  out  for  them. 

As  if  to  make  the  scene  complete,  a  group  of  Andalusians 
struck  up  a  dance,  in  one  of  the  vistas  of  the  garden,  to  the 
guitars  of  two  wandering  musicians.  The  Spanish  music  is 
wild  and  plaintive,  yet  the  people  dance  to  it  with  spirit  and 
enthusiasm.  The  picturesque  figures  of  the  dancers ;  the  girls 
with  their  hair  in  silken  nets  that  hung  in  knots  and  tassels 
down  their  backs,  their  mantillas  floating  round  their  graceful 
forms,  their  slender  feet  peeping  from  under  their  basquinas, 
their  arms  tossed  up  in  the  air  to  play  the  castanets,  had  a 
beautiful  effect  on  this  any  height,  with  the  rich  evening  land- 
scape spreading  out  below  them. 

When  the  dance  was  ended,  two  of  the  parties  approached 
Antonio  and  Inez ;  one  of  them  began  a  soft  and  tender  Moorish 
ballad,  accompanied  by  the  other  on  the  lute.  It  alluded  to 
the  story  of  the  garden,  the  wrongs  of  the  fair  queen  of  Gra- 


132  BUACKBUlJJuE  HALL. 

nada,  and  the  misfortunes  of  the  Abencerrages.  It  was  one  of 
those  old  ballads  that  abound  in  this  part  of  Spain,  and  live, 
like  echoes,  about  the  ruins  of  Moorish  greatness.  The  heart 
of  Inez  was  at  that  moment  open  to  every  tender  impression; 
the  tears  rose  into  her  eyes,  as  she  listened  to  the  talc.  The 
singer  approached  nearer  to  her;  she  was  striking  in  her  ap- 
pearance; young,  beautiful,  with  a  mixture  of  wildness  and 
melanch  >ly  in  her  fine  black  eyes.  She  fixed  them  mournfully 
and  expressively  on  Inez,  and,  suddenly  varying  her  manner, 
sang  another  ballad,  which  treated  of  impending  danger  and 
treachery.  All  this  might  have  passed  for  a  mere  accidental 
caprice  of  the  singer,  had  there  not  been  something  in  her  look, 
manner,  and  gesticulation  that  made  it  pointed  and  startling. 

Inez  was  about  to  ask  the  meaning  of  this  evidently  personal 
application  of  the  song,  when  she  was  interrupted  by  Antonio, 
who  gently  drew  her  from  the  place.  Whilst  she  had  been  lost 
in  attention  to  the  music,  he  had  remarked  a  group  of  men,  in 
the  shadows  of  the  trees,  whispering  together.  They  were 
enveloped  in  the  broad  hats  and  great  cloaks  so  much  worn  by 
the  Spanish,  and,  while  they  were  regarding  himself  and  Inez 
attentively,  seemed  anxious  to  avoid  observation.  Not  know- 
ing what  might  be  their  character  or  intention,  he  hastened  to 
quit  a  place  where  the  gathering  shadows  of  evening  might  ex- 
pose them  to  intrusion  and  insult.  On  their  way  down  the 
hill,  as  they  passed  through  the  wood  of  elms,  mingled  witl 
poplars  and  oleanders,  that  skirts  the  road  leading  from  the 
Alhambra,  he  again  saw  these  men  apparently  following  at 
distance ;  and  he  afterwards  caught  sight  of  them  among  the 
trees  on  the  banks  of  the  Darro.  He  said  nothing  on  the  sub- 
ject to  Inez,  nor  her  father,  for  he  would  not  awaken  unneces- 
sary alarm ;  but  he  felt  at  a  loss  how  to  ascertain  or  to  avert 
any  machinations  that  might  be  devising  against  the  helpless 
inhabitants  of  the  tower. 

He  took  his  leave  of  them  late  at  night,  full  of  this  perplex- 
ity. As  he  left  the  dreary  old  pile,  he  saw  some  one  lurking: 
the  shadow  of  the  wall,  apparently  watching  his  movements. 
He  hastened  after  the  figure,  but  it  glided  away,  and  dis- 
appeared among  some  ruins.  Shortly  after  he  heard  a  kn 
whistle,  which  was  answered  from  a  little  distance.  He  had  nc 
longer  a  doubt  but  that  some  mischief  was  on  foot,  and  turn* 
to  hasten  back  to  the  tower,  and  put  its  inmates  on  their 
guard.  He  had  scarcely  turned,  however,  before  he  found 
himself  suddenly  seized  from  behind  by  some  one  of  Herculean 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.  l'S$ 

strength.  His  struggles  wei  e  in  vain ;  he  was  surrounded  by 
armed  men.  One  threw  a  mantle  over  him  that  stilled  his 
cries,  and  enveloped  him  in  its  folds ;  and  he  was  hurried  off 
with  irresistible  rapidity. 

The  next  day  passed  without  the  appearance  of  Antonio  at 
the  alchymist's.  Another,  and  another  day  succeeded,  and 
yet  he  did  not  come ;  nor  had  any  thing  been  heard  of  him  at 
his  lodgings.  His  absence  caused,  at  first,  surprise  and  con- 
jecture, and  at  length  alarm.  Inez  recollected  the  singular 
intimations  of  the  ballad-singer  upon  the  mountain,  which 
seemed  to  warn  her  of  impending  danger,  and  her  mind  was 
full  of  vague  forebodings.  She  sat  listening  to  every  sound  at 
the  gate,  or  footstep  on  the  stairs.  She  would  take  up  her 
guitar  and  strike  a  few  notes,  but  it  would  not  do;  her  heart 
was  sickening  with  suspense  and  anxiety.  She  had  never  be- 
fore felt  what  it  was  to  be  really  lonely.  She  now  was  con- 
scious of  the  force  of  that  attachment  which  had  taken  posses- 
sion of  her  breast ;  for  never  do  we  know  how  much  we  love, 
never  do  we  know  how  necessary  the  object  of  our  love  is  to 
our  happiness,  until  we  experience  the  weary  void  of  separa- 
tion. 

The  philosopher,  too,  felt  the  absence  of  his  disciple  almost 
as  sensibly  as  did  his  daughter.  The  animating  buoyancy  of 
the  youth  had  inspired  him  with  new  ardour,  and  had  given  to 
.  his  labours  the  charm  of  full  companionship.  However,  he  had 
resources  and  consolations  of  which  his  daughter  was  desti- 
tute. His  pursuits  were  of  a  nature  to  occupy  every  thought, 
and  keep  the  spirits  in  a  state  of  continual  excitement.  Cer- 
tain indications,  too,  had  lately  manifested  themselves,  of  the 
most  favourable  nature.  Forty  days  and  forty  nights  had  the 
"process  gone  on  successfully ;  the  old  man's  hopes  were  con- 
stantly rising,  and  he  now  considered  the  glorious  moment 
once  more  at  hand,  when  he  should  obtain  not  merely  the 
major  lunaria,  but  likewise  the  tinctura  Solaris,  the  means  of 
multiplying  gold,  and  of  prolonging  existence.  He  remained, 
therefore,  continually  shut  up  in  his  laboratory,  watching  his 
furnace ;  for  a  moment's  inadvertency  might  once  more  defeat 
all  his  expectations. 

He  was  sitting  one  evening  at  one  of  his  solitary  vigils, 
wrapped  up  in  meditation  ;*  the  hour  was  late,  and  his  neigh- 
bour, the  owl,  was  hooting  from  the  battlement  of  the  tower, 
when  he  heard  the  door  open  behind  him.  Supposing  it  to 
be  his  daughter  coming  to  take  her  leave  of  him  for  the  night, 


134  BRACBBR1DGB  HALL. 

as  was  herf  requent  practice,  he  called  her  by  name,  but  a  harsh 
voice  nie  this  ear  in  reply.  He  was  grasped  by  the  arms,  and, 
looking  up,  perceived  three  strange  men  in  the  chamber.  He 
attempted  to  shake  them  off,  but  in  vain.  He  called  for  help, 
but  they  scoffed  at  his  cries.  "Peace,  dotard!1'  cried  one: 
' '  think'st  thou  the  servants  of  the  most  holy  inquisition  are 
to  be  daunted  by  thy  clamours?    Comrades,  away  with  him!" 

Without  heeding  his  remonstrances  and  entreaties,  they 
seized  upon  his  books  and  papers,  took  some  note  of  the  apart- 
ment, and  the  utensils,  and  then  bore  him  off  a  prisoner. 

Inez,  left  to  herself,  had  passed  a  sad  and  lonely  evening; 
seated  by  a  casement  which  looked  into  the  garden,  she  had 
pensively  watched  star  after  star  sparkle  out  cf  the  blue  depths 
of  the  sky,  and  was  indulging  a  crowd  of  anxious  thoughts 
about  her  lover,  until  the  rising  tears  began  to  flow.  She  was 
suddenly  alarmed  by  the  sound  of  voices,  that  seemed  to  come 
from  a  distant  part  of  the  mansion.  There  was,  not  long  after, 
a  noise  of  several  persons  descending  the  stairs.  Surprised  at 
these  unusual  sounds  in  their  lonely  habitation,  she  remained 
for  a  few  moments  in  a  state  of  trembling,  yet  indistinct  appre- 
hension, when  the  servant  rushed  into  the  room,  with  terror 
in  her  countenance,  and  informed  her  that  her  father  was  car- 
ried off  by  armed  men. 

Inez  did  not  stop  to  hear  further,  but  flew  down-stairs  to 
overtake  them.  She  had  scarcely  passed  the  threshold,  when 
she  found  herself  in  the  grasp  of  strangers.— "Away ! — away!" 
cried  she,  wildly,  "do  not  stop  me— let  me  follow  my  father." 

"  We  come  to  conduct  you  to  him,  senora,"  said  one  of  the 
men,  respectfully. 

"Where  is  he,  then?" 

"  He  is  gone  to  Granada,"  replied  the  man:  "an  unexpected 
circumstance  requires  his  presence  there  immediately ;  but  he 
IS  among  friends  " 

"We  have  no  friends  in  Granada,"  said  Inez,  drawing  back; 
but  then  the  idea  of  Antonio  rushed  into  her  mind;  something 
relating  to  him  might  have  call  her  father  thither.  ' '  Is  senoi 
Antonio  de  Castros  with  him?"  demanded  she,  with  agitation. 

' '  I  know  not,  senora, "  replied  the  man.  "  It  is  very  possible. 
I  only  know  that  your  father  is  among  friends,  and  is  anxious 
for  you  to  follow  him." 

"Let  us  go,  then,"  cried  she,  eagerly.  The  men  led  her  a 
little  distance  to  where  a  mule  was  waiting,  and,  assisting 
her  to  mount,  they  conducted  her  slowly  towards  the  city. 


THE  STUDENT  OF  8ALAMANGA.  23/5 

Granada  was  on  that  evening  a  scene  of  fanciful  revel.  It 
was  one  of  the  festivals  of  the  Maestvanza,  an  association  of 
the  nobility  to  keep  up  some  of  the  gallant  customs  of  ancient 
chivalry.  There  had  been  a  representation  of  a  tournament 
in  one  of  the  squares ;  the  streets  would  still  occasionally  re- 
sound with  the  beat  of  a  solitary  drum,  or  the  bray  of  a  trum- 
pet from  some  straggling  party  of  revellers.  Sometimes  they 
were  met  by  cavaliers,  richly  dressed  in  ancient  costumes,  at- 
tended by  their  squires ;  and  at  one  time  they  passed  in  sight 
of  a  palace  brilliantly  illuminated,  from  whence  came  the  min- 
gled sounds  of  music  and  the  dance.  Shortly  after,  they  came 
to  the  square  where  the  mock  tournament  had  been  held.  It 
was  thronged  by  the  populace,  recreating  themselves  among 
booths  and  stalls  where  refreshments  were  sold,  and  the  glare 
of  torches  showed  the  temporary  galleries,  and  gay-coloured 
awnings,  and  armorial  trophies,  and  other  prraphernalia  of 
the  show.  The  conductors  of  Inez  endeavoured  to  keep  out  of 
observation,  and  to  traverse  a  gloomy  part  of  the  square ;  but 
they  were  detained  at  one  place  by  the  pressure  of  a  crowd  sur- 
rounding a  party  of  wandering  musicians,  singing  one  of  those 
ballads  of  which  the  Spanish  populace  are  so  passionately  fond. 
The  torches  which  were  held  by  some  of  the  crowd,  threw  a 
strong  mass  of  light  upon  Inez,  and  the  sight  of  so  beautiful  a 
being,  without  mantilla  or  veil,  looking  so  bewildered,  and 
conducted  by  men  who  seemed  to  take  no  gratification  in  the 
surrounding  gayety,  occasioned  expressions  of  curiosity.  One 
of  the  ballad-singers  approached,  and  striking  her  guitar  with 
peculiar  earnestness,  began  to  sing  a  doleful  air,  full  of  sinister 
forebodings.  Inez  started  with  surprise.  It  was  the  same  bal- 
lad-singer that  had  addressed  her  in  the  garden  of  the  Gene- 
raliffe.  It  was  the  same  air  that  she  had  then  sung.  It  spoke 
of  impending  dangers;  they  seemed,  indeed,  to  be  thickening 
around  her.  She  wns  anxious  to  speak  with  the  girl,  an  1  to 
ascertain  whether  she  really  had  a  knowledge  of  any  definite 
evil  that  was  threatemng  her;  but,  as  she  attempted  to  address 
her,  the  mule,  on  which  she  rode,  was  suddenly  seized,  and  led 
forcibly  through  the  throng  by  one  of  her  conductors,  while 
she  saw  another  addressing  menacing  words  to  the  ballad- 
singer.  The  latter  raised  her  hand  with  a  warning  gesture,  as 
Inez  lost  sight  of  her. 

While  she  was  yet  lost  in  perplexity,  caused  by  this  singular 
occurrence,  they  stopped  at  the  gate  of  a  large  mansion.  One 
of  her  attendants  knocked,  the  door  was  opened,  and  they  en 


136  miACEBRlDGE  11  ALL. 

tered  a  paved  court.  ''Where  are  we?"  demanded  Inez,  with 
anxiety.  "At  the  house  of  a  friend,  senora,"  replied  the  man. 
"Ascend  this  staircase  with  me,  and  in  a  moment  you  wil] 
meet  your  father." 

They  ascended  a  staircase,  that  led  to  a  suite  of  splendid 
apartments.  They  passed  through  several,  until  they  came  to 
an  inner  chamber.  The  door  opened — some  one  approached; 
but  what  was  her  terror  at  perceiving,  not  her  father,  but  Don 
Ambrosio ! 

The  men  who  had  seized  upon  the  alchymist  had,  at 
been  more  honest  in  their  professions.  They  wore,  indeed, 
familiars  of  the  inquisition.  He  was  conducted  in  silence  to 
the  gloomy  prison  of  that  horrible  tribunal.  It  was  a  mansion 
whose  very  aspect  withered  joy,  and  almost  shut  out  hope.  It 
was  one  of  those  hideous  abodes  which  the  bad  passions  of  men 
conjure  up  in  this  fair  world,  to  rival  the  fancied  dens  of 
demons  and  the  accursed. 

Day  after  day  went  heavily  by,  without  anything  to  mark 
the  lapse  of  time,  but  the  decline  and  reappearance  of  the  light 
that  feebly  glimmered  through  the  narrow  window  of  the  dun- 
geon in  which  the  unfortunate  alchymist  was  buried  rather 
than  confined.  His  mind  was  harassed  with  uncertainties  and 
fears  about  his  daughter,  so  helpless  and  inexperienced.  He 
endeavoured  to  gather  tidings  of  her  from  the  man  who  brought 
his  daily  portion  of  food.  The  fellow  stared,  as  if  astonished 
at  being  asked  a  question  in  that  mansion  of  silence  and  mys- 
tery, but  departed  without  saying  a  word.  Every  succeeding 
attempt  was  equally  fruitless. 

The  poor  alchymist  was  oppressed  by  many  griefs ;  and  it 
was  not  the  least,  that  he  had  been  again  interrupted  in  Ins 
labours  on  the  very  point  of  success.  Never  was  alchymist  so 
near  attaining  the  golden  secret— a  little  longer,  and  all  his 
hopes  would  have  been  realized.  The  thoughts  of  these  disap- 
pointments afflicted  him  more  even  than  the  fear  of  all  that  he 
might  suffer  from  the  merciless  inquisition.  His  waking  I 
thoughts  would  follow  him  into  his  dreams.  He  would  be 
transported  in  fancy  to  his  laboratory,  busied  again  among  re-! 
torts  and  alembics,  and  surrounded  bv  Lully,  by  D'Abano,  byj 
Olybius,  and  the  other  masters  of  the  sublime  art.  Tne  mo- 
ment of  projection  would  arrive;  a  seraphic  form  would  rise j: 
out  of  the  furnace,  holding  forth  a  vessel  containing  the  pre-.] 
cious  elixir;  but,  before  he  could  grasp  the  prize,  he  would: 
awake,  and  find  himself  in  a  dungeon. 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA  137 

t  All  the  devices  of  inquisitorial  inrenuit, -  wers  employed  to 
ensnare  the  old  nan,  ani  to  drr  v  from  hiii  evidence  that 
Right  be  brought  against  himself,  and  might  corroborate  cer- 
tain secret  information  that  had  been  given  against  him.  He 
had  been  accused  of  practising  necromancy  and  judicial  astrol- 
<id  a  cloud  of  evidence  had  been  secretly  brought  forward 
stantiate  the  charge.  It  would  be  tedious  to  enumerate 
Bll  the  circumstances,  apparently  corroborative,  which  had 
■been  industriously  cited  by  the  secret  accuser.  The  silence 
which  prevailed  about  the  tower,  its  desolateness,  the  very  quiet 
o'l  its  inhabitants,  had  been  adduced  as  proofs  that  something 
sinister  was  perpetrated  within.  The  alchy mist's  conversa- 
iions  and  soliloquies  in  the  garden  had  been  overheard  and  mis- 
represented. The  lights  and  strange  appearances  at  night,  in 
the  tower,  were  given  with  violent  exaggerations.  Snrieks 
and  yells  were  said  to  have  been  heard  from  thence  at  mid- 
night, when,  it  was  confidently  asserted,  the  old  man  raised 
familiar  spirits  by  his  incantations,  and  even  compelled  the 
dead  to  rise  from  their  graves,  and  answer  to  his  questions. 

Tlr  alchymist,  according  to  the  custom  of  the  inquisition, 
wa  s  kept  in  complete  ignorance  of  his  accuser ;  of  the  witnesses 
produced  against  him;  even  of  the  crimes  of  which  he  was  ac- 
Sised.  He  was  examined  generally,  whether  he  knew  why  he 
wa  arrested  and  was  conscious  of  any  guilt  that  might  de- 
serve the  notice  of  the  holy  office?  He  was  examined  as  to  his 
country,  his  life,  his  habits,  his  pursuits,  his  actions,  and  opin- 
ions. The  old  man  was  frank  and  simple  in  his  replies ;  he  was 
conscious  of  no  guilt,  capable  of  no  art,  practised  in  no  dis- 
simulation. After  receiving  a  general  admonition  to  bethink 
him  sell  whether  he  had  not  committed  any  act  deserving  of 
punishmen'  and  to  prepare,  by  confession,  to  secure  the  well- 
known  mercy  of  the  tribunal,  he  was  remanded  to  his  cell. 

He  was  now  visited  in  his  dungeon  by  crafty  familiars  of  the 
inquisition  who,  under  pretence  of  sympathy  and  kindness, 
?ame  to  beguile  the  tediousness  of  his  imprisonment  with 
friendly  conversation.  They  casually  introduced  the  subject 
pf  alchymy,  on  which  they  touched  with  great  caution  and 
bretended  indifference.  There  was  no  need  of  such  craftiness. 
Che  honest  enthusiast  had  no  suspicion  in  his  nature :  the  mo- 
nent  they  touched  upon  his  favourite  theme,  he  forgot  his  mis- 
'ortunes  and  imprisonment,  and  broke  forth  into  rhapsodies 
ibout  the  divine  science. 
The  conversation  was  artfully  turned  go  the  discussion  of 


138  BHACEBR1UGE  HALL. 

elernentcry  beings.  The  alchymist  readily  avowed  his  belief 
in  them ;  and  that  there  had  been  instances  of  their  attending 
upon  philosophers,  and  administering  to  their  wishes.  He 
related  many  miracles  said  to  have  been  performed  by  Apol- 
lonius  Thyaneus,  through  the  aid  of  spirits  or  demons ;  inso- 
much that  he  was  set  up  by  the  heathens  in  opposition  to  the 
Messiah;  and  was  even  regarded  with  reverence  by  many 
Christians.  The  familiars  eagerly  demanded  whether  he  be- 
lieved Apollonius  to  be  a  true  and  worthy  philosopher.  The 
unaffected  piety  of  the  alchymist  protected  him  even  in  the 
midst  of  his  simplicity;  for  he  condemned  Apollonius  as  a 
sorcerer  and  an  impostor.  No  art  could  draw  from  him  an 
admission  that  he  had  ever  employed  or  invoked  spiritual 
agencies  in  the  prosecution  of  his  pursuits,  though  he  believed 
himself  to  have  been  frequently  impeded  by  their  invisible 
interference. 

The  inquisitors  were  sorely  vexed  at  not  being  able  to  inveigle 
him  into  a  confession  of  a  criminal  nature ;  they  attributed  their 
failure  to  craft,  to  obstinacy,  to  every  cause  but  the  right  one, 
namely,  that  the  harmless  visionary  had  nothing  guilty  to  con 
fess.  They  had  abundant  proof  of  a  secret  nature  against  him ; 
but  it  was  the  practice  of  the  inquisition  to  endeavour  to  procure 
confession  from  the  prisoners.  An  auto  da  fe  was  at  hand; 
the  worthy  fathers  were  eager  for  his  conviction,  for  they  were 
always  anxious  to  have  a  good  number  of  culprits  condemned 
to  the  stake,  to  grace  .these  solemn  triumphs.  He  was  at 
length  brought  to  a  final  examination. 

The  chamber  of  trial  was  spacious  and  gloomy.  At  one  end 
was  a  huge  crucifix,  the  standard  of  the  inquisition.  A  long 
table  extended  through  the  centre  of  the  room,  at  which  sat 
the  inquisitors  and  their  secretary ;  at  the  other  end,  a  stool 
wau  placed  for  the  prisoner. 

He  was  brought  in,  according  to  custom,  bare-headed  and 
bare-legged.  He  was  enfeebled  by  confinement  and  affliction; 
by  constantly  brooding  over  the  unknown  fate  of  his  child, 
and  the  disastrous  interruption  of  his  experiments.  He  sat 
bowed  down  and  listless;  his  head  sumi  upon  his  breast;  his 
whole  appearance  that  of  one  ' '  pas  c  hope,  abandoned,  and  by 
himself  given  over." 

The  accusation  alleged  against  mm  was  uow  brought  forward 
in  a  specific  form;  he  was  called  upon  by  name,  Felix  de 
Vasquez,  formerly  of  Castile,  to  answer  to  the  charges  of 
necromancy  and  demonology.    He  was  told  lhat  ^he  charges 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.  139 

were  amply  substantiated;  and  was  asked  whether  he  was 
ready,  by  full  confession,  to  throw  himself  upon  the  well- 
known  mercy  of  the  holy  inquisition. 

The  philosopher  testified  some  slight  surprise  at  the  nature 
of  the  accusation,  but  simply  replied,  "I  am  innocent." 

"What  proof  have  you  to  give  of  your  innocence?" 

''It  rather  remains  for  you  to  prove  your  charges,"  said  the 
old  man.  "  I  am  a  stranger  and  a  sojourner  in  the  land,  and 
know  no  one  out  of  the  doors  of  my  dwelling.  I  can  give 
nothing  in  my  vindication  but  the  word  of  a  nobleman  and  a 
Castilian." 

The  inquisitor  shook  his  head,  and  went  on  to  repeat  the 
various  inquiries  that  had  before  been  made  as  to  his  mode  of 
life  and  pursuits.  The  poor  alchymist  was  too  feeble  and  too 
weary  at  heart  to  make  any  but  brief  replies.  He  requested 
that  some  man  of  science  might  examine  his  laboratory,  and  all 
his  books  and  papers,  by  which  it  would  be  made  abundantly 
evident  that  he  was  merely  engaged  in  the  study  of  alchymy. 

To  this  the  inquisitor  observed,  that  alchymy  had  become  a 
mere  covert  for  secret  and  deadly  sins.  That  the  practisers  of 
it  were  apt  to  scruple  at  no  means  to  satisfy  their  inordinate 
greediness  of  gold.  Some  had  been  known  to  use  spells  and 
impious  ceremonies;  to  conjure  the  aid  of  evil  spirits;  nay, 
even  to  sell  their  souls  to  the  enemy  of  mankind,  so  that  they 
might  riot  in  boundless  wealth  while  living. 

The  poor  alchymist  had  heard  all  patiently,  or,  at  least,  pas- 
sively. He  had  disdained  to  vindicate  his  name  otherwise 
than  by  his  word ;  he  had  smiled  at  the  accusations  of  sorcery, 
when  applied  merely  to  himself ;  but  when  the  sublime  art, 
which  had  been  the  study  and  passion  of  his  life,  was  assailed, 
he  could  no  longer  listen  in  silence.  His  head  gradually  rose 
from  his  bosom ;  a  hectic  colour  came  in  faint  streaks  to  his 
cheek;  played  about  there,  disappeared,  returned,  and  at 
length  kindled  into  a  burning  glow.  The  clammy  dampness 
dried  from  his  forehead;  his  eyes,  which  had  nearly  been 
extinguished,  lighted  up  again,  and  burned  with  their  wonted 
and  visionary  fires.  He  entered  into  a  vindication  of  Ins  fa- 
vourite art.  His  voice  at  first  was  feeble  and  broken;  but  it 
gathered  strength  as  he  proceeded,  until  it  rolled  in  a  deep  and 
sonorous  volume.  He  gradually  rose  from  his  seat,  as  he  rose 
with  his  subject;  he  threw  back  the  scanty  black  mantle 
which  had  hitherto  wrapped  his  limbs ;  the  very  uncouthness 
of  his  form  and  looks  gave  an  impressive  effect  to  what  he 


140  BRACEMltoQti  HALL. 

uttered ;  it  was  as  though  a  corpse  had  become  suddenly  an 
mated. 

He  repelled  with  scorn  the  aspersions  cast  upon  alchymy  by 
the  ignorant  and  vulgar.  He  affirmed  it  to  be  the  mother  of 
all  art  and  science,  citing  the  opinions  of  Paracelsus,  Sandi- 
vogius,  Raymond  Lully,  and  others,  in  support  of  his  asser- 
tions. He  maintained  that  it  was  pure  and  innocent  mid 
honourable  both  in  its  purposes  and  means.  What  were  its 
objects9  The  perpetuation  of  life  nnd  youth,  and  the  produc- 
tion of  gold.  "The  elixir  vitae,"  said  he,  "is  no  charmed 
potion,  but  merely  a  concentration  of  those  elements  of  vitality 
wh:"h  nature  ha:  scattered  through  her  works.  The  philoso- 
pher'p  stone,  or  tincture,  or  powder,  as  it  is  variously  called,  is 
no  necromantic  talisman,  but  consists  f  imply  of  those,  particles 
which  gold  contains  within  itself  for  its  reproduction;  for  gold, 
like  other  things,  has  its  seed  within  itself,  though  bound  up 
with  inconceivable  firmness,  from  the  vigour  of  innate  fired 
salts  and  sulphurs.  In  seeking  to  discover  the  elixir  of  life, 
then,"  continued  he  "we  seek  only  to  apply  some  of  naturei 
own  specifics  against  the  disease  and  decay  to  which  our  bodies 
are  subjected;  and  what  else  does  the  physician,  when  he  tasks 
hi*3  art.  nnd  uses  subtle  compounds  and  cunning  distillations, 
to  revive  our  languishing  powers,  and  avert  the  stroke  of  death 
for  a  season? 

"In  seeking  to  multiply  the  precious  metals,  also,  we  seek  but 
to  germinate  and  multiply,  by  natural  means,  a  particular 
species  ot  nature's  productions ;  and  what  else  does  the  hus- 
bandman, who  consults  times  and  seasons,  and,  by  what  might 
be  deemed  a  natural  magic,  from  the  mere  scattering  of  ins 
hand,  covers  a  whole  plain  with  golden  vegetation?  The  mys- 
teries of  our  art,  it  is  true,  are  deeply  and  darkly  hidden ,  but 
it  requires  so  much  the  more  innocence  and  purity  of  thought, 
to  penetrate  unto  them.  No,  father !  the  true  alchymist  must 
b  pure  in  mind  and  body;  he  must  be  temperate,  patient, 
chaste,  watchful,  meek,  humble,  devout.  '  My  son,'  says 
Hermes  Trismegestes,  the  great  master  of  our  art,  '  my  son,  I 
recommend  you  above  all  things  to  fear  God.'  And  indeed  it  is 
only  by  devout  castigation  of  the  senses,  and  purification  of  the 
soul  that  the  alchymist  is  enabled  to  enter  into  the  sacred 
chambers  of  truth.  'Labour,  pray,  and  read,'  is  the  motto  of 
ou  science.  As  De  Nuysment  well  observes,  '  These  hic;h  and 
singular  favours  are  granted  unto  none,  save  only  unto  the 
sons  of  God,  (that  is  to  say,  the  virtuous  and  devout.)  who, 


THE  STUDENT  OF   SALAMANCA.  141 

under  his  paternal  benediction,  have  obtained  the  opening 
of  the  same,  by  the  helping  hand  of  the  queen  of  arts,  divine 
Philosophy.'  Indeed,  so  sacred  has  the  nature  of  this  know- 
been  considered,  that  we  are  told  it  has  four  times  been 
expressl  y  communicated  by  God  to  man,  having  made  a  part  of 
that  eabalistical  wisdom  which  was  revealed  to  Adam  to  con- 
sole him  for  the  loss  of  Paradise;  and  to  Moses  in  tfre  bush,  and 
to  Solomon  in  a  dream,  and  to  Esdras  by  the  angel. 

1 '  So  far  from  demons  and  malign  spirits  being  the  friends  and 
abettors  of  the  alchymist,  they  are  the  continual  foes  with 
which  he  has  to  contend.  It  is  their  constant  endeavour  to  shut 
-up  the  avenues  to  those  truths  which  would  enable  him  to  rise 
'-above  the  abjectstate  into  which  he  has  fallen,  and  return  to  that 
excellence  which  was  his  original  birthright.  For  what  would 
$>e  the  effect  of  this  length  of-  days,  and  this  abundant  wealth, 
but  to  enable  the  possessor  to  go  on  from  art  to  art,  from  science 
to  science,  with  energies  unimpaired  by  sickness,  uninterrupted 
by  death  ?  For  tins  have  sages  and  philosophers  shut  themselves 
up  in  cells  and  solitudes ;  buried  themselves  in  caves  and  dens 
of  the  earth:  turning  from  the  joys  of  life,  and  the  pleasance  of 
the  world ;  enduring  scorn,  poverty,  persecution.  For  this  was 
Raymond  Lully  stoned  to  death  in  Mauritania.  For  this  did 
the  immortal  Pietro  D'Abano  suifer  persecution  at  Padua, 
and,  when  he  escaped  from  his  oppressors  by  death,  was  dc 
spitefully  burnt  in  effigy.  For  this  have  illustrious  men  of  all 
nations  intrepidly  suffered  martyrdom.  For  this,  if  unmolest- 
ed, have  they  assiduously  employed  the  latest  hour  of  life, 
the  expiring  throb  of  existence ;  hoping  to  the  last  that  they 
might  yet  seize  upon  the  prize  for  which  they  had  struggled, 
and  pluck  themselves  back  even  from  the  very  jaws  of  the 
grave ! 

•  "For,  when  once  the  alchymist  shall  have  attained  the  ob- 
ject of  his  toils ;  when  the  sublime  secret  shall  be  revealed  to 
i.ie,  how  glorious  will  be  the  change  in  his  condition! 
How  will  he  emerge  from  his  solitary  retreat,  like  the  sun 
breaking  forth  from  the  darksome  chamber  of  the  night,  and 
darting  his  beams  throughout  the  earth !  Gifted  with  perpetual 
youth  and  boundless,  riches,  to  what  heights  of  wisdom  may  he 
attain!  How  may  he  carry  on,  uninterrupted,  the  thread  of 
Knowledge,  which  has  hitherto  been  snapped  at  the  death  of 
•ach  philosopher!  And.  as  the  increase  of  wisdom  is  the  in- 
•  of  virtue,  how  may  he  become  the  benefactor  of  his 
fellow-men:  dispensing,  with  liberal  but  cautious  and  disc  rimi- 


142  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

nating  hand,  that  inexhaustible  wealth  which  is  at  his  disposal ; 
banishing  poverty,  which  is  the  cause  of  so  much  sorrow  and 
wickedness ;  encouraging  the  arts ;  promoting  discoveries,  and 
enlarging  all  the  means  of  virtuous  enjoyment!  His  life  will 
be  the  connecting  band  of  generations.  History  will  live  in  his 
recollection;  distant  ages  will  speak  with  his  tongue.  The 
nations  of  the  earth  will  look  to  him  as  their  preceptor,  and 
kings  will  sit  at  Iris  feet  and  learn  wisdom.  Oh  glorious !  oh 
celestial  alchymy  I" — 

Here  he  was  interrupted  by  the  inquisitor,  who  had  suffered 
him  to  go  on  thus  far,  in  hopes  of  gathering  something  from  his 
unguarded  enthusiasm.  "  Senor,"  said  he,  this  is  all  rambling, 
visionary  talk.  You  are  charged  with  sorcery,  and  in  defence 
you  give  us  a  rhapsody  about  alchymy.  Have  you  nothing 
better  than  this  to  offer  in  your  defence?" 

The  old  man  slowly  resumed  his  seat,  but  did  not  deign  a 
reply.  The  fire  that  had  beamed  in  his  eye  gradually  expired. 
His  cheek  resumed  its  wonted  paleness ;  but  he  did  not  relapse 
into  inanity.  He  sat  with  a  steady,  serene,  patient  look,  like 
one  prepared  not  to  contend,  but  to  suffer. 

His  trial  continued  for  a  long  time,  with  cruel  mockery  of 
justice,  for  no  witnesses  were  ever  in  this  court  confronted  with 
the  accused,  and  the  latter  had  continually  to  defend  himself  in 
the  dark.  Some  unknown  and  powerful  enemy  had  alleged 
charges  against  the  unfortunate  alchymist,  but  who  he  could 
not  imagine.  Stranger  and  sojourner  as  he  was  in  the  land, 
solitary  and  harmless  in  his  pursuits,  how  could  he  have  pro- 
voked such  hostility?  The  tide  of  secret  testimony,  however, 
was  too  strong  against  him ;  he  was  convicted  of  the  crime  of 
magic,  and  condemned  to  expiate  his  sins  at  the  stake,  at  the 
approaching  auto  da  fe. 

While  the  unhappy  alchymist  was  undergoing  his  trial  at 
the  inquisition,  his  daughter  was  exposed  to  trials  no  less 
severe.  Don  Ambrosio,  into  whose  hands  she  had  fallen,  was, 
as  has  before  been  intimated,  one  of  the  most  daring  and  lawless 
profligates  in  all  Granada.  He  was  a  man  of  hot  blood  and 
fiery  passions,  who  stopped  at  nothing  in  the  gratification  of 
his  desires;  yet  with  all  this  he  possessed  manners,  address, 
and  accomplishments,  that  had  made  him  eminently  successful 
among  the  sex.  From  the  palace  to  the  cottage  he  had  extend- 
ed his  amorous  enterprises ;  his  serenades  harassed  the  slum- 
bers of  half  the  husbands  in  Granada ;  no  balcony  was  too  high 
for  his  adventurous  attempts,  nor  any  cottage  too  lowly  for  his 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.  14H 

perfidious  seductions.  Yet  he  was  as  fickle  as  he  was  ardent ; 
success  had  made  him  vain  and  capricious ;  he  had  no  sentiment 
to  attach  him  to  the  victim  of  his  arts ;  and  many  a  pale  cheek 
and  fading  eye,  languishing  amidst  the  sparkling  of  jewels,  and 
many  a  breaking  heart,  throbbing  under  the  rustic  bodice, 
bore  testimony  to  his  triumphs  and  his  faithlessness. 

He  was  sated,  however,  by  easy  conquests,  and  wearied  of  a 
life  of  continual  and  prompt  gratification.  There  had  been  a 
degree  of  difficulty  and  enterprise  in  the  pursuit  of  Inez  that  he 
had  never  before  experienced.  It  had  aroused  him  from  the 
monotony  of  mere  sensual  life,  and  stimulated  him  with  the 
charm  of  adventure.  He  had  become  an  epicure  in  pleasure ; 
and  now  that  he  had  this  coy  beauty  in  his  power,  he  was  de- 
termined to  protract  his  enjoyment,  by  the  gradual  conquest  of 
her  scruples  and  downfall  of  her  virtue.  He  was  vain  of  his 
person  and  address,  which  he  thought  no  woman  could  long 
withstand ;  and  it  was  a  kind  of  trial  of  skill  to  endeavour  to 
gain,  by  art  and  fascination,  what  he  was  secure  of  obtaining 
at  any  time  by  violence. 

When  Inez,  therefore,  was  brought  into  his  presence  by  his 
emissaries,  he  affected  not  to  notice  her  terror  and  surprise,  but 
received  her  with  formal  and  stately  courtesy.  He  was  too 
wary  a  fowler  to  flutter  the  bird  when  just  entangled  in  the 
net.  To  her  eager  and  wild  inquiries  about  her  father,  he 
begged  her  not  to  be  alarmed ;  that  he  was  safe,  and  had  been 
there,  but  was  engaged  elsewhere  in  an  affair  of  moment, 
from  which  he  would  soon  return ;  in  the  meantime,  he  had 
left  word  that  she  should  await  his  return  in  patience.  After 
some  stately  expressions  of  general  civility,  Don  Ambrosio 
made  a  ceremonious  bow  and  retired. 

The  mind  of  Inez  was  full  of  trouble  and  perplexity.  The 
stately  formality  of  Don  Ambrosio  was  so  unexpected  as  to 
check  the  accusations  and  reproaches  that  were  springing  to  her 
lips.  Had  he  had  evil  designs,  would  he  have  treated  her  with 
such  frigid  ceremony  when  he  had  her  in  his  power?  But  why, 
then,  was  she  brought  to  his  house  ?  Was  not  the  mysterious 
disappearance  of  Antonio  connected  with  this?  A  thought 
suddenly  darted  into  her  mind.  Antonio  had  again  met  with 
Don  Ambrosio— they  had  fought— Antonio  was  wounded — per- 
haps dying !  It  was  him  to  whom  her  father  had  gone — it  was 
at  Ms  request  that  Don  Ambrosio  had  sent  for  them,  to  soothe 
his  dying  moments !  These,  and  a  thousand  such  horrible  sug- 
l  gestions,  harassed  her  mind:  but  she  tried  in  vain  to  get  in- 


144  BRACEBIUDGE  HALL. 

formation  from  the  domestics;  they  hnew  nothing  but  that  her 
father  had  been  there,  had  gone,  a^d  would  soon  return. 

Tims  passed  a  night  of  tumultuous  thought,  and  vague  yet 
cruel  apprehensions.  She  knew  not  what  to  do  or  what  to 
believe— whether  she  ought  to  fly,  or  to  remain;  but  if  to  fly, 
how  was  she  to  extricate  herself?— and  where  was  she  to  seek 
her  father?  As  the  day  dawned  without  any  intelligence  of 
him,  her  alarm  increased;  at  length  a  message  was  brought 
from  him,  saying  that  circumstances  prevented  Ins  return  to 
her,  but  begging  her  to  hasten  to  him  without  delay. 

With  an  eager  and  throbbing  heart  did  she  set  forth  with  the 
men  that  were  to  conduct  her.     She  little  thought,  however, 
that  she  was  merely  changing  her  prison-house.     Don  Ainbro- 
sio  had  feared  lest  she  should  be  traced  to  his  residence  in 
Granada ;  or  that  he  might  be  interrupted  there  before  he  could 
accomplish  his  plan  of  seduction.     He  had  her  now  conveyed, 
therefore,  to  a  mansion  which  he  possessed  in  one  of  the  moun 
tain  solitudes  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Granada ;  a  lonely,  bu 
beautiful  retreat.     In  vain,  on  her  arrival,  did  she  look  aroum 
for  her  lather  or  Antonio ;  none  but  strange  faces  met  her  eye ; 
menials,  profoundly  respectful,  but  who  knew  nor  saw  anythin 
but  what  their  master  pleased. 

She  had  scarcely  arrived  before  Don  Ambrosio  made  his  ap- 
pearance, less  stately  in  his  manner,  but  still  treating  her  wit 
the  utmost  delicacy  and  deference.  Inez  was  too  much  agitate 
and  alarmed  to  be  baffled  by  his  courtesy,  and  became  veh 
ment  in  her  demand  to  be  conducted  to  her  father. 

Don  Ambrosio  now  put  on  an  appearance  of  the  greatest  em 
barrassmenft  and  emotion.  After  some  delay,  and  much  pre- 
tended confusion,  he  at  length  confessed  that  the  seizure  of  he 
father  was  all  a  stratagem ;  a  mere  false  alarm,  to  procure  him 
the  present  opportunity  of  having  access  to  her,  and  endeavour- 
ing to  mitigate  that  obduracy,  and  conquer  that  repugnance, 
which  he  declared  had  almost  driven  him  to  distraction. 

He  assured  her  that  her  father  was  again  at  home  in  safety, 
and  occupied  in  his  usual  pursuits ;  having  been  fully  satisfi< 
that  his  daughter  was  in  honourable  hands,  and  would  soon 
restored  to  him.     It  was  in  vain  that  she  threw  herself  at  hi 
"feet,  and  implored  to  be  set  at  liberty;  he  only  replied  bygentl 
entreaties,  that  she  would  pardon  the  seeming  violence  he  had 
use ;  and  that  she  would  trust  a  little  while  to  Ms  honour.    ' '  Yo 
are  here,"  said  he,  "absolute  mistress  of  every  thing:  not 
shall  be  said  or  done  to  offend  you :  I  will  not  even  intrud 


Tin:  stvdest  or  SALAAfAtfCA.  U5 

upon  your  ear  the  unhappy  passion  that  is  devouring  my  heart. 
Should  you  require  it,  I  will  even  absent  myself  from  your 
presence;  but,  to  part  with  you  entirely  at  present,  with  your 
mind  full  of  doubts  and  resentments,  would  be  worse  than 
death  to  me.  No,  beautiful  Inez,  you  must  first  know  me  a 
little  better,  and  know  by  my  conduct  that  my  passion  for  you 
is  as  delicate  and  respectful  as  it  is  vehement." 

The  assurance  of  her  father's  safety  had  relieved  Inez  from 
one  cause  of  torturing  anxiet}',  only  to  render  her  fears  the 
more  violent  on  her  own  account.  Don  Ambrosio,  however, 
continued  to  treat  her  with  artful  deference,  that  insensibly 
lulled  her  apprehensions.  It  is  true  she  found  herself  a  captive, 
but  no  advantage  appeared  to  be  taken  of  her  helplessness.  She 
soothed  herself  with  the  idea  that  a  little  while  would  suffice  to 
convince  Don  Ambrosio  of  the  fallacy  of  Iris  hopes,  and  that 
he  would  be  induced  to  restore  her  to  her  home.  Her  tran- 
sports of  terror  and  affliction,  therefore,  subsided,  in  a  few 
days,  into  a  passive,  yet  anxious  melancholy,  with  which  she 
awaited  the  hoped-for  event. 

In  the^  meanwhile,  all  those  artifices  were  employed  that  are 
calculated  to  charm  the  senses,  ensnare  the  feelings,  and  dis- 
solve the  heart  into  tenderness.  Don  Ambrosio  was  a  master 
of  the  subtle  arts  of  seduction.  His  very  mansion  breathed  an 
enervating  atmosphere  of  languor  and  delight.  It  was  here, 
amidst  twilight  saloons  and  dreamy  chambers,  buried  among 
groves  of  orange  and  myrtle,  that  he  shut  himself  up  at  times 
from  the  prying  world,  and  gave  free  scope  to  the  gratification 
of  his  pleasures. 

The  apartments  were  furnished  in  the  most  sumptuous  and 
voluptuous  manner ;  the  silken  couches  swelled  to  the  touch, 
and  sunk  in  downy  softness  beneath  the  slightest  pressure. 
The  paintings  and  statues,  all  told  some  classic  tale  of  love, 
mannged.  however,  with  an  insidious  delicacy;  which,  while  it 
banished  the  grossness  that  might  disgust,  was  the  more  calcu- 
lated to  excite  the  imagination.  There  the  blooming  Adonis 
was  seen,  not  breaking  away  to  pursue  the  boisterous  chase, 
but  crowned  with  flowers,  and  languishing  in  the  embraces  of 
celestial  beauty.  There  Acis  wooed  his  Galatea  in  the  shade, 
with  the  Sicilian  sea  spreading  in  halcyon  serenity  before  them. 
There  were  depicted  groups  of  fauns  and  dryads,  fondly  re- 
clining in  summer  bowers,  and  listening  to  the  liquid  piping 
of  the  reed;  or  the  wanton  satyrs,  surprising  some  wood- 
nymph   during   her    noontide  slumber.     There,  too,   on  the 


146  hRA  GEBHID  Q  B  II A  L  L. 

storied  tapestry,  might  be  seen  the  chaste  Diana,  stealing,  in 
the  mystery  of  moonlight,  to  kiss  the  sleeping  Endymion; 
while  Cupid  and  Psyche,  entwined  in  immortal  marble, 
breathed  on  each  other's  lips  the  early  kiss  of  love. 

The  ardent  rays  of  the  sun  were  excluded  from  these  balmy 
halls;  soft  and  tender  music  from  unseen  musicians  floated 
around,  seeming  to  mingle  with  the  perfumes  that  were  exhaled 
from  a  thousand  flowers.  At  night,  when  the  moon  shed  a 
fairy  light  over  the  scene,  the  tender  serenade  would  rise  from 
among  the  bowers  of  the  garden,  in  which  the  fine  voice  of 
Don  Ambrosio  might  often  be  distinguished ;  or  the  amorous 
flute  would  be  heard  along  the  mountain,  breathing  in  its 
pensive  cadences  the  very  soul  of  a  lover's  melancholy. 

Various  entertainments  were  also  devised  to  dispel  her  lone- 
liness, and  to  charm  away  the  idea  of  confinement.  Groups  of 
Andalusian  dancers  performed,  in  the  splendid  saloons,  the 
various  picturesque  dances  of  their  country;  or  represented 
little  amorous  ballets,  which  turned  upon  some  pleasing  scene 
of  pastoral  coquetry  and  courtship.  Sometimes  there  were 
bands  of  singers,  who,  to  the  romantic  guitar,  warbled  forth 
ditties  full  of  passion  and  tenderness. 

Thus  all  about  her  enticed  to  pleasure  and  voluptuousnesss ; 
but  the  heart  of  Inez  turned  with  distaste  from  this  idle 
mockery.  The  tears  would  rush  into  her  eyes,  as  her  thoughts 
reverted  from  this  scene  of  profligate  splendour'  to  the  humble 
but  virtuous  home  from  whence  she  had  been  betrayed ;  or  if 
the  witching  power  of  music  ever  soothed  her  into  a  tender 
reverie,  it  was  to  dwell  with  fondness  on  the  image  of  Antonio. 
But  if  Don  Ambrosio,  deceived  by  this  transient  calm,  should 
attempt  at  such  time  to  whisper  his  passion,  she  would  start  as 
from  a  dream,  and  recoil  from  him  with  involuntary  shudder- 
ing. 

She  had  passed  one  long  day  of  more  than  ordinary  sadness, 
and  in  the  evening  a  band  of  these  hired  performers  were 
exerting  all  the  animating  powers  of  song  and  dance  to  amuse 
her.  But  while  the  lofty  saloon  resounded  with  their  war- 
blings,  and  the  fight  sound  of  feet  upon  its  marble  pavement 
kept  time  to  the  cadence  of  the  song,  poor  Inez,  with  her  face 
buried  in  the  silken  couch  on  which  she  reclined,  was  only  ren- 
dered more  wretched  by  the  sound  of  gay  ety. 

At  length  her  attention  was  caught  by  the  voice  of  one  of  the 
singers,  that  brought  with  it  some  indefinite  recollections. 
She  raised  her  head,  and  cast  an  anxious  look  at  the  perform- 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.  147 

ers,  who,  as  usual  were  at  the  lower  end  of  the  saloon.  One 
of  them  advanced  a  little  before  the  others.  It  was  a  female, 
dressed  in  a  fanciful,  pastoral  garb,  suited  to  the  character  she 
was  sustaining ;  but  her  countenance  was  not  to  be  mistaken. 
It  was  the  same  ballad-singer  that  had  twice  crossed  her  path, 
and  given  her  mysterious  intimations  of  the  lurking  mischief 
that  surrounded  her.  When  the  rest  of  the  performances 
.were  concluded,  she  seized  a  tambourine,  and,  tossing  it  aloft, 
danced  alone  to  the  melody  of  her  own  voice.  In  the  course 
of  her  dancing,  she  approached  to  where  Inez  reclined :  and  as 
she  struck  the  tambourine,  contrived  dexterously  to  throw  a 
folded  paper  on  the  couch.  Inez  seized  it  with  avidity,  and 
concealed  it  in  her  bosom.  The  singing  and  dancing  were  at 
an  end ;  the  motley  crew  retired ;  and  Inez,  left  alone,  hastened 
with  anxiety  to  unfold  the  paper  thus  mysteriously  conveyed. 
It  was  written  in  an  agitated,  and  almost  illegible  handwriting ; 
"Be  on  your  guard!  you  are  surrounded  by  treachery. 
Trust  not  to  the  forbearance  of  Don  Ambrosio;  you  are 
marked  out  for  his  prey.  An  humble  victim  to  his  perfidy 
gives  you  this  warning;  she  is  encompassed  by  too  many  dan- 
gers to  be  more  explicit. — Your  father  is  in  the  dungeons  of 
the  inquisition!" 

The  brain  of  Inez  reeled,  as  she  read  this  dreadful  scroll. 
She  was  less  filled  with  alarm  at  her  own  danger,  than  horror 
at  her  father's  situation.  The  moment  Don  Ambrosio  appeared, 
she  rushed  and  threw  herself  at  his  feet,  imploring  him  to 
save  her  father.  Don  Ambrosio  stared  with  astonishment ;  but 
Nimmediately  regaining  his  self-possession,  endeavoured  to 
soothe  her  by  his  blandishments,  and  by  assurances  that  her 
father  was  in  safety.  She  was  not  to  be  pacified;  her  fears 
were  too  much  aroused  to  be  trifled  with.  She  declared  her 
knowledge  of  her  father's  being  a  prisoner  of  the  inquisition, 
and  reiterated  her  frantic  supplications  that  he  would  save 
him. 

Don  Ambrosio  paused  for  a  moment  in  perplexity,  but  was 
too  adroit  to  be  easily  confounded.  ' '  That  your  father  is  a 
prisoner,"  replied  he,  "I  have  long  known.  I  have  concealed 
it  from  you,  to  save  you  from  fruitless  anxiety.  You  now 
know  the  real  reason  of  the  restraint  I  have  put  upon  your 
liberty:  I  have  been  protecting  instead  of  detaining  you. 
Every  exertion  has  been  made  in  your  father's  favour ;  but  I 
regret  to  say,  the  proofs  of  the  offences  of  which  he  stands 
charged  have  been  too  strong  to  be  controverted.     Still, "  added 


148  BRACEBR1DGE  HALL. 

he,  "I  have  it  in  my  power  to  save  him;  I  have  influence,  I 
have  means  at  my  beck ;  it  may  involve  me,  it  is  true,  in  diffi- 
culties, perhaps  in  disgrace ;  but  what  would  I  not  do,  in  the 
hope  of  being  rewarded  by  your  favour?  Speak,  beautiful 
Inez,1'  said  he,  his  eyes  kindling  with  sudden  eagerness;  "it  is 
with  you  to  say  the  word  that  seals  your  father's  fate.  One 
kind  word— say  but  you  will  be  mine,  and  you  will  behold  me 
at  your  feet,  your  father  at  liberty  and  in  affluence,  and  we 
shall  all  be  happy !" 

Inez  drew  back  from  him  with  scorn  and  disbelief.  ' '  My 
father,"  exclaimed  she,  "is  too  innocent  and  blameless  to  be 
convicted  of  crime;  this  is  some  base,  some  cruel  artifice!" 
Don  Ambrosio  repeated  his  asseverations,  and  with  them  also 
his  dishonourable  proposals;  but  his  eagerness  overshot  its 
mark ;  her  indignation  and  her  incredulity  were  alike  awakened 
by  his  base  suggestions;  and  he  retired  from  her  presence, 
checked  and  awed  by  the  sudden  pride  and  dignity  of  her 
demeanour. 

The  unfortunate  Inez  now  became  a  prey  to  the  most  har- 
rowing anxieties.  Don  Ambrosio  saw  that  the  mask  had  fallen 
from  his  face,  and  that  the  nature  of  his  machinations  was 
revealed.  He  had  gone  too  far  to  retrace  his  steps,  and  assume 
the  affectation  of  tenderness  and  respect ;  indeed,  he  was  mor- 
tified and  incensed  at  her  insensibility  to  his  attractions,  and 
now  only  sought  to  subdue  her  through  her  fears.  He  daily 
represented  to  her  the  dangers  that  threatened  her  father,  and 
that  it  was  in  his  power  alone  to  avert  them.  Inez  was  still 
incredulous.  She  was  too  ignorant  of  the  nature  of  the  inqui- 
sition, to  know  that  even  innocence  was  not  always  a  protection 
f roii  i  its  cruelties ;  and  she  confided  too  surely  in  the  virtue  of 
her  father,  to  believe  that  any  accusation  could  prevail  against 
him. 

At  length  Don  Ambrosio,  to  give  an  effectual  blow  to  her 
confidence,  brought  her  the  proclamation  of  the  approaching 
auto  da  fe,  in  which  the  prisoners  were  enumerated.  She 
glanced  her  eye  over  it,  and  beheld  her  father's  name,  con- 
demned to  the  stake  for  sorcery ! 

For  a  moment  she  stood  transfixed  with  horror.  Don 
Ambrosio  seized  upon  the  transient  calm.  "Think,  now, 
beautiful  Inez, "  said  he,  with  a  tone  of  affected  tenderness, 
"his life  is  still  in  your  hands;  one  word  from  you,  one  kind 
word,  and  I  can  yet  save  him." 

"Monster!    wretch!"    cried   she,    coming   to  herself,    and 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.  149 

recoiling  from  him  with  insuperable  abhorrence :  '  *  Tis  you 
that  are  the  cause  of  this — 'tis  you  that  are  his  murderer!" 
Then,  wringing  her  hands,  she  broke  forth  into  exclamations  of 
the  most  frantic  agony. 

The  perfidious  Ambrosio  saw  the  torture  of  her  soul,  and 
anticipated  from  it  a  triumph.  He  saw  that  she  was  in  no 
mood,  during  her  present  paroxysm,  to  listen  to  his  words ;  but 
he  trusted  that  the  horrors  of  lonely  rumination  would  break 
down  her  spirit,  and  subdue  her  to  his  will.  In  this,  however, 
he  was  disappointed.  Many  were  the  vicissitudes  of  mind 
of  the  wretched  Inez;  at  one  time,  she  would  embrace  his 
knees,  with  piercing  supplications;  at  another,  she  would 
shrink  with  nervous  horror  at  his  very  approach;  but  any 
intimation  of  his  passion  only  excited  the  same  emotion  of 
loathing  and  detestation. 

At  length  the  fatal  day  drew  nigh.  "  To-morrow, "  said 
Don  Ambrosio,  as  he  left  her  one  evening,  "  to-morrow  is 
the  auto  da  fe.  To-morrow  you  will  hear  the  sound  of  the  bell 
that  tolls  your  father  to  his  death.  You  will  almost  see  the 
smoke  that  rises  from  the  funeral  pile.  I  leave  you  to  yourself. 
It  is  yet  in  my  power  to  save  him.  Think  whether  you  can 
stand  to-morrow's  horrors  without  shrinking !  Think  whether 
you  can  endure  the  after-reflection,  that  you  were  the  cause  of 
his  death,  and  that  merely  through  a  perversity  in  refusing 
proffered  happiness." 

What  a  night  was  it  to  Inez! — her  heart  already  harassed 
and  almost  broken,  by  repeated  and  protracted  anxieties ;  her 
strength  wasted  and  enfeebled.  On  every  side,  horrors 
awaited  her;  her  father's  death,  her  own  dishonour — there 
seemed  no  escape  from  misery  or  perdition.  ';Is  there  no 
relief  from  man— no  pity  in  heaven?'1  exclaimed  she.  "  What 
— what  have  we  done,  that  we  should  be  thus  wretched  ?" 

As  the  dawn  approached,  the  fever  of  her  mind  arose  to 
agony;  a  thousand  times  did  she  try  the  doors  and  windows  of 
her  apartment,  in  the  desperate  hope  of  escaping.  Alas!  with 
all  the  splendour  of  her  prison,  it  was  too  faithfully  secured  for 
her  weak  hands  to  work  deliverance.  Like  a  poor  bird,  that 
beats  its  wings  against  its  gilded  cage,  until  it  sinks  panting  in 
despair,  so  she  threw  herself  on  the  floor  in  hopeless  anguish. 
Her  blood  grew  hot  in  her  veins,  her  tongue  was  parched, 
her  temples  throbbed  with  violence,  she  gasped  rather  than 
breathed ;  it  seemed  as  if  her  brain  was  on  fire.  ' '  Blessed  Vir- 
gin!" exclaimed  she,  clasping  her  hands  and  turning  up  her 


150  BRACEBRIDQE  HALL. 

strained  eyes,  £ ;  look  down  with  pity,  and  support  me  in  this 
dreadful  hour !" 

Just  as  the  day  began  to  dawn,  she  heard  a  key  turn  softly 
in  the  door  of  her  apartment.  She  dreaded  lest  it  should  be 
Don  Ambrosio ;  and  the  very  thought  of  him  gave  her  a  sick- 
ening pang.  It  was  a  female  clad  in  a  rustic  dress,  with  her  face 
concealed  by  her  mantilla.  She  stepped  silently  into  the  room, 
looked  cautiously  roimd,  and  then,  uncovering  her  face,  re- 
vealed the  well-known  features  of  the  ballad-singer.  Inez  ut- 
tered an  exclamation  of  surprise,  almost  of  joy.  The  unknown 
started  back,  pressed  her  finger  on  her  lips  enjoining  silence, 
and  beckoned  her  to  follow.  She  hastily  wrapped  herself  in 
her  veil,  and  obeyed.  They  passed  with  quick,  but  noiseless 
steps  through  an  antechamber,  across  a  spacious  hall,  and  along 
a  corridor;  all  was  silent;  the  household  was  yet  locked  in 
sleep.  They  came  to  a  door,  to  which  the  unknown  applied 
a  key.  Inez's  heart  misgave  her ;  she  knew  not  but  some  new 
treachery  was  menacing  her ;  she  laid  her  cold  hand  on  the 
stranger's  arm:  ''Whither  are  you  leading  me?"  said  she. 
uTo  liberty,"  replied  the  other,  in  a  whisper. 

"Do  you  know  the  passages  about  this  mansion?" 

" But  too  well!"  replied  the  girl,  with  a  melancholy  shake  of 
the  head.     There  was  an  expression  of  sad  veracity  in  her 
countenance,  that  was  not  to  be  distrusted.     The  door  opened 
on  a  small  terrace,  which  was  overlooked  by  several  windowi 
of  the  mansion. 

"  We  must  move  across'  this  quickly,"  said  the  girl,  "orw< 
may  be  observed. " 

They  glided  over  it,  as  if  scarce  touching  the  ground, 
flight  of  steps  led  down  into  the  garden ;  a  wicket  at  the  bot 
torn  was  readily  unbolted :  they  passed  with  breathless  velocity 
along  one  of  the  alleys,  still  in  sight  of  the  mansion,  in  which, 
however,  no  person  appeared  to  be  stirring.  At  length  they 
came  to  a  low  private  door  in  the  wall,  partly  hidden  by  a  fig- 
tree.  It  was  secured  by  rusty  bolts,  that  refused  to  yield  to 
their  feeble  efforts. 

1 '  Holy  Virgin !"  exclaimed  the  stranger,  ' '  what  is  to  be  done? 
one  moment  more,  and  we  may  be  discovered." 

She  seized  a  stone  that  lay  near  by :  a  few  blows,  and  the 
bolt  flew  back ;  the  door  grated  harshly  as  they  opened  it,  and 
the  next  moment  they  found  themselves  in  a  narrow  road. 

"  Now,"  said  the  stranger,  "for  Granada  as  quickly  as 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.  101 

ble !  The  nearer  we  approach  it,  the  safer  we  shall  be ;  for  the 
road  will  be  more  frequented." 

The  imminent  risk  they  ran  of  being  pursued  and  taken, 
gave  supernatural  strength  to  their  limbs;  they  flew,  rather 
than  ran.  The  day  had  dawned ;  the  crimson  streaks  on  the 
edge  of  the  horizon  gave  tokens  of  the  approaching  sunrise ; 
already  the  light  clouds  that  floated  in  the  western  sky  were 
tinged  with  gold  and  purple ;  though  the  broad  plain  of  the 
Vega,  which  now  began  to  open  upon  their  view,  was  covered 
with  the  dark  haze  of  morning.  As  yet  they  only  passed  a  few 
straggling  peasants  on  the  road,  who  could  have  yielded  them 
no  assistance  in  case  of  their  being  overtaken.  They  continued 
to  hurry  forward,  and  had  gained  a  m considerable  distance, 
when  the  strength  of  Inez,  which  had  only  been  sustained  by 
the  fever  of  her  mind,  began  to  yield  to  fatigue :  she  slackened 
her  pace,  and  faltered. 

1 '  Alas  1"  said  she,  ' '  my  limbs  fail  me !    I  can  go  no  farther  I" 

' '  Bear  up,  bear  up, "  replied  her  companion,  cheeringly ;  "  a  lit- 
tle farther,  and  we  shall  be  safe :  look !  yonder  is  Granada,  just 
showing  itself  in  the  valley  below  us.  A  little  farther,  and  we 
shall  come  to  the  main  road,  and  then  we  shall  find  plenty  of 
passengers  to  protect  us." 

Inez,  encouraged,  made  fresh  efforts  to  get  forward,  but  her 
weary  limbs  were  unequal  to  the  eagerness  of  her  mind ;  her 
mouth  and  throat  were  parched  by  agony  and  terror:  she 
gasped  for  breath,  and  leaned  for  support  against  a  rock.  "  It 
is  all  in  vain!"  exclaimed  she;  "I  feel  as  though  I  shoidd  faint." 

" Lean  on  me,"  said  the  other;  "let  us  get  into  the  shelter  of 
yon  thicket,  that  will  conceal  us  from  the  view;  I  hear  the 
sound  of  water,  which  will  refresh  you." 

With  much  difficulty  they  reached  the  thicket,  which  over- 
hung a  small  mountain-stream,  just  where  its  sparkling  waters 
leaped  over  the  rock  and  fell  into  a  natural  basin.  Here  Inez 
sank  upon  the  ground,  exhausted.  Her  companion  brought 
water  in  the  palms  of  her  hands,  and  bathed  her,  pallid  temples. 
The  cooling  drops  revived  her ;  she  was  enabled  to  get  to  the 
margin  of  the  stream,  and  drink  of  its  crystal  current;  then, 
reclining  her  head  on  the  bosom  of  her  deliverer,  she  was  first 
enabled  to  murmur  forth  her  heartfelt  gratitude. 

"Alas!"  said  the  other,  "I  deserve  no  thanks;  I  deserve  not 
the  good  opinion  you  express.  In  me  you  behold  a  victim  of 
Don  Ambrosio's  arts.  In  early  years  he  seduced  me  from  the 
pottage  of  my  parents:  look!  at  the  foot  of  yonder  blue  moun- 


152  BEACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

tain,  in  the  distance,  lies  my  native  village:  but  it  is  no  longer 
a  home  for  me.  From  thence  he  lured  me,  when  I  was  too 
young  for  reflection;  he  educated  me,  taught  me  various  ac- 
complishments, made  me  sensible  to  love,  to  splendour,  to  re- 
finement ;  then,  having  grown  weary  of  me,  he  neglected  me, 
and  cast  me  upon  the  world.  Happily  the  accomplishments  he 
taught  me  have  kept  me  from  utter  want ;  and  the  love  with 
which  he  inspired  me  has  kept  me  from  farther  degradation. 
Yes !  I  confess  my  weakness ;  all  his  perfidy  and  wrongs  can- 
not efface  him  from  my  heart.  I  have  been  brought  up  to  love 
him ;  I  have  no  other  idol :  I  know  him  to  be  base,  yet  I  cannot 
help  adoring  him.  I  am  content  to  mingle  among  the  hireling 
throng  that  administer*  to  his  amusements,  that  I  may  still 
hover  about  him,  and  linger  in  those  halls  where  I  once  reigned 
mistress.  What  merit,  then,  have  I  in  assisting  your  escape? 
I  scarce  know  whether  I  am  acting  from  sympathy  and  a  de- 
sire to  rescue  another  victim  from  his  power ;  or  jealousy,  and 
an  eagerness  to  remove  too  powerful  a  rival !" 

While  she  was  3*et  speaking,  the  sun  rose  in  all  its  splendour ; 
first  lighting  up  the  mountain  summits,  then  stealing  down 
height  by  height,  until  its  rays  gilded  the  domes  and  towers  of 
Granada,  which  they  could  partially  see  from  between  the 
trees,  below  them.  Just  then  the  heavy  tones  of  a  bell  came 
sounding  from  a  distance,  echoing,  in  sullen  clang,  along  the 
mountain.  Inez  turned  pale  at  the  sound.  She  knew  it  to  be 
the  great  bell  of  the  cathedral,  rung  at  sunrise  on  the  day  of 
the  auto  da  f e,  to  give  note  of  funeral  preparation.  Every  stroke 
beat  upon  her  heart,  and  inflicted  an  absolute,  corporeal  pang. 
She  started  up  wildly.  "Let  us  begone!"  cried  she;  "there 
is  not  a  moment  for  delay !" 

"Stop!"  exclaimed  the  other;  "yonder  are  horsemen  com- 
ing over  the  brow  of  that  distant  height ;  if  I  mistake  not,  Don 
Ambrosio  is  at  their  head.— Alas!  'tis  he!  we  are  lost.  Hold!" 
continued  she;  "give  me  your  scarf  and  veil;  wrap  yourself  in 
this  mantilla.  I  will  fly  up  yon  footpath  that  leads  to  the 
heights.  I  will  let  the  veil  flutter  as  I  ascend ;  perhaps  they 
may  mistake  me  for  you,  and  they  must  dismount  to  follow 
me.  Do  you  hasten  forward :  you  will  soon  reach  the  main 
road.  You  have  jewels  on  your  fingers :  bribe  the  first  mule- 
teer you  meet,  to  assist  you  on  your  way. " 

All  this  was  said  with  hurried  and  breathless  rapidity.  The 
exchange  of  garments  was  made  in  an  instant.  The  girl  darted 
up  the  mountain-path,  her  white  veil  fluttering  among  the  dark 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.  153 

shrubbery,  while  Inez,  inspired  with  new  strength,  or  rather 
new  terror,  flew  to  the  road>  and  trusted  to  Providence  to  guide 
her  tottering  steps  to  Granada. 

All  Granada  was  in  agitation  on  the  morning  of  this  dismal 
day.  The  heavy  bell  of  the  cathedral  continued  to  utter  its 
clanging  tones,  that  pervaded  every  part  of  the  city,  summon- 
ing all  persons  to  the  tremendous  spectacle  that  was  about  to 
be  exhibited.  The  streets  through  which  the  procession  was  to 
pass  were  crowded  with  the  populace.  The  windows,  the  roofs, 
every  place  that  could  admit  a  face  or  a  foothold,  were  alive 
with  spectators.  In  the  great  square,  a  spacious  scaffolding, 
like  an  amphitheatre,  was  erected,  where  the  sentences  of  the 
prisoners  were  to  be  read,  and  the  sermon  of  faith  to  be 
preached ;  and  close  by  were  the  stakes  prepared,  where  the 
condemned  were  to  be  burnt  to  death.  Seats  were  arranged 
for  the  great,  the  gay,  the  beautiful ;  for  such  is  the  horrible 
curiosity  of  human  nature,  that  this  cruel  sacrifice  was  attended 
with  more  eagerness  than  a  theatre,  or  even  a  bull-feast. 

As  the  day  advanced,  the  scaffolds  and  balconies  were  filled 
with  expecting  multitudes;  the  sun  shone  brightly  upon  fair 
faces  and  gallant  dresses;  one  would  have  thought  it  ?ome 
scene  of  elegant  festivity,  instead  of  an  exhibition  of  human 
agony  and  death.  But  what  a  different  spectacle  and  ceremony 
was  this,  from  those  which  Granada  exhibited  in  the  days  of 
her  Moorish  splendour!  "Her  galas,  her  tournaments,  her 
sports  of  the  ring,  her  fetes  of  St.  John,  her  music,  her  Zam 
bras,  and  admirable  tilts  of  canes !  Her  serenades,  her  concerts, 
her  songs  in  Generaliffe !  The  costly  liveries  of  the  Abencer- 
rages,  their  exquisite  inventions,  the  skill  and  valour  of  the 
Alabaces,  the  superb  dresses  of  the  Zegries,  Mazas,  and  Gome- 
les !"  * — All  these  were  at  an  end.  The  days  of  chivalry  were 
over.  Instead  of  the  prancing  cavalcade,  with  neighing  steed 
and  lively  trumpet ;  with  burnished  lance,  and  helm,  and  buck- 
ler; with  rich  confusion- of  plume,  and  scarf,  and  banner,  where 
purple,  and  scarlet,  and  green,  and  orange,  and  every  gay 
colour,  were  mingled  with  cloth  of  gold  and  fair  embroidery ; 
instead  of  this,  crept  on  the  gloomy  pageant  of  superstition,  in 
cowl  and  sackcloth ;  with  cross  and  coffin,  and  frightful  sym- 
bols of  human  suffering.  In  place  of  the  frank,  hardy  knight, 
open  and  brave,  with  his  lady's  favour  in  his  casque,  and 
amorous  motto  on  his  shield,  looking,  by  gallant  deeds,  to  win 


*  Rodd's  Civil  Wars  of  Granada. 


154  BRACEBnifiGM  HALL. 

the  smile  of  beauty,  came  mo  shaven,  unmanly  monk,  with 
downcast  eyes,  and  head  and  heart  bleached  in  the  cold  cloister, 
secretly  exulting  in  this  bigot  triumph. 

The  sound  of  the  bells  gave  notice  that  the  dismal  procession 
was  advancing.  It  passed  slowly  through  the  principal  streets 
of  the  city,  bearing  in  advance  the  awful  banner  of  the  Holy 
Office.  The  prisoners  walked  singly,  attended  by  confessors, 
and  guarded  by  familiars  of  the  inquisition.  They  were  clad 
in  different  garments,  according  to  the  nature  of  their  punish- 
in*  -i its:  those  who  were  to  suffer  death  wore  the  hideous 
Samaria,  painted  with  flames  and  demons.  The  procession 
-welled  by  choirs  of  boys,  different  religious  orders  and 
public  dignitaries,  and  above  all,  by  the  fathers  of  the  faith, 
moving  "with  slow  pace,  and  profound  gravity,  truly  tri- 
umphing as  becomes  the  principal  generals  of  that  great  vic- 
tory."* 

Afl  the  sacred  banner  of  the  inquisition  advanced,  the  count- 
less throng  sunk  on  their  knees  before  it;  they  bowed  their 
to  the  very  earth  as  it  passed,  and  then  slowly  rose  again, 
like  a  great  undulating  billow.  A  murmur  of  tongues  prevailed 
as  the  prisoners  approached,  and  eager  eyes  were  strained,  and 
fingers  pointed,  to  distinguish  the  different  orders  of  penitents, 
whose  habits  denoted  the  degree  of  punishment  they  were  to 
undergo.  But  as  those  drew  near  whose  frightful  garb  marked 
them  as  destined  to  the  flames,  the  noise  of  the  rabble  subsided; 
they  seemed  almost  to  hold  in  their  breath;  filled  with  that 
strange  and  dismal  interest  .with  which  we  contemplate  a  human 
being  on  the  verge  of  suffering  and  death. 

It  is  an  awful  thing — a  voiceless,  noiseless  multitude!  The 
hushed  and  gazing  stillness  of  the  surrounding  thousands, 
heaped  on  walls,  and  gates,  and  roofs,  and  hanging,  as  it  were, 
in  clusters,  heightened  the  effect  of  the  pageant  that  moved 
drearily  on.  The  low  murmuring  of  the  priests  could  now  be 
heard  in  prayer  and  exhortation,  with  the  faint  responses  of 
the  prisoners,  and  now  and  then  the  voices  of  the  choir  at  a 
distance,  chanting  the  litanies  of  the  saints. 

The  faces  of  the  prisoners  were  ghastly  and  disconsolate. 
Even  those  who  had  been  pardoned,  and  wore  the  Sanbenito, 
or  penitential  garment,  bore  traces  of  the  horrors  they  had 
undergone.  Some  were  feeble  and  tottering,  from  long  con- 
finement; some  crippled  and  distorted  by  various  tortures; 


*  Gonsalvius,  p.  135. 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA.  155 

every  countenance  was  a  dismal  page,  on  which  might  be  read 
•the  secrets  of  their  prison-house.  But  in  the  looks  of  those  com 
demned  to  deaths  there  was  something  fierce  and  eager.  They 
seemed  men  harrowed  up  by  the  past,  and  desperate  as  to  the 
future.  They  were  anticipating,  with  spirits  fevered  by  despair, 
and  fixed  and  clenched  determination,  the  vehement  struggle 
with  agony  and  death  which  they  were  shortly  to  undergo. 
Some  cast  now  and  then  a  wild  and  anguished  look  about  them, 
upon  the  shining  day;  the  "sun-bright  palaces,"  the  gay,  the 
beautiful  world,  which  they  were  soon  to  quit  for  ever;  or  a 
glance  of  sudden  indignation  at  the  thronging  thousands,  happy 
in  liberty  and  life,  who  seemed,  in  contemplating  their  fright- 
ful situation,  to  exult  in  their  own  comparative  security. 

One  among  the  condemned,  however,  was  an  exception  to 
these  remarks.  It  was  an  aged  man,  somewhat  bowed  down, 
with  a  serene,  though  dejected  countenance,  and  a  beaming, 
melancholy  eye.  It  was  the  alchyniist.  The  populace  looked 
upon  him  with  a  degree  of  compassion,  which  they  were  not 
prone  to  feel  towards  criminals  condemned  by  the  inquisition ; 
but  when  they  were  told  that  he  Avas  convicted  of  the  crime  of 
magic,  they  drew  back  with  awe  and  abhorr 

The  procession  had  reached  the  grand  square.  The  first  part 
had  already  mounted  the  scaffolding,  and  the  condemned  were 
approaching.  The  press  of  the  populace  became  excessive,  and 
was  repelled,  as  it  were,  in  billows  b3^  the  guards.  Just  as  the 
condemned  were  entering  the  square,  a  shrieking  was  heard 
among  the  crowd.  A  female,  pale,  frantic,  dishevelled,  was 
seen  struggling  through  the  multitude.  "My  father!  my 
father!"  was  all  the  cry  she  uttered,  but  it  thrilled  through 
every  heart.  The  crowd  instinctively  drew  back,  and  made 
way  for  her  as  she  advanced. 

Tne  poor  alchymist  had  made  Ins  peace  with  Heaven,  and. 
by  a  hard  struggle,  had  closed  his  heart  upon  the  world,  when 
the  voice  of  his  child  called  him  once  more  back  to  worldly 
thought  and  agony.  He  turned  towards  the  well-known  voice, 
his  knees  smote  together ;  he  endeavoured  to  stretch  forth  his 
pinioned  arms,  and  felt  himself  clasped  in  the  embraces  of  his 
child.  The  emotions  of  both  were  too  agonizing  for  utterance. 
Convulsive  sebs  and  broken  exclamations,  and  embraces  more 
of  anguish  than  tenderness,  were  all  that  passed  between  them. 
The  procession  was  interrupted  for  a  moment.  The  astonished 
monks  and  familiars  were  filled  with  involuntary  respect,  at 
the  agony  of  natural  affection,    Ejaculations  of  pity  broke 


156  BRAGEBRIDOE  HALL. 

from  the  crowd,  touched  by  the  filial  piety,  the  extraordinary 
and  hopeless  anguish,  of  so  young  and  beautiful  a  being. 

Every  attempt  to  soothe  her,  and  prevail  on  her  to  retire, 
was  unheeded;  at  length  they  endeavoured  to  separate  her 
from  her  father  by  force.  The  movement  roused  her  from  her 
temporary  abandonment.  Y/ith  a  sudden  paroxysm  of  fury, 
she  snatched  a  sword  from  one  of  the  familiars.  Her  late  pale 
countenance  was  flushed  with  rage,  and  fire  flashed  from  her 
once  soft  and  languishing  eyes.  The  guards  shrunk  back  with 
awe.  There  was  something  in  this  filial  frenzy,  this  feminine 
tenderness  wrought  up  to  desperation,  that  touched  even  their 
hardened  hearts.  They  endeavoured  to  pacify  her,  but  in  vain. 
Her  eye  wras  eager  and  quick,  as  the  she-wolf's  guarding  her 
young.  With  one  arm  she  pressed  her  father  to  her  bosom, 
with  the  other  she  menaced  every  one  that  approached. 

The  patience  of  the  guards  was  soon  exhausted.  They  had 
held  back  in  awe,  but  not  in  fear.  With  all  her  desperation 
the  weapon  was  soon  wrested  from  her  feeble  hand,  and  she 
was  borne  shrieking  and  struggling  among  the  crowd.  The 
rabble  murmured  compassion ;  but  such  was  the  dread  inspired 
by  the  inquisition,  that  no  one  attempted  to  interfere. 

The  procession  again  resumed  its  march.  Inez  was  ineffect- 
ually struggling  to  release  herself  from  the  hands  of  the  fami- 
liars that  detained  her,  when  suddenly  she  saw  Don  Ambrosio 
before  her.  "  Wretched  girl!"  exclaimed  he  with  fury,  "  why 
have  you  fled  from  your  friends  ?  Deliver  her,"  said  he  to  the 
familiars,  "  to  my  domestics;  she  is  under  my  protection." 

His  creatures  advanced  to  seize  her.  "Oh,  no!  oh,  no!" 
cried  she,  with  new  terrors,  and  clinging  to  the  familiars,  "I 
have  fled  from  no  friends.  He  is  not  my  protector !  He  is  the 
murderer  of  my  father !" 

The  familiars  were  perplexed;  the  crowd  pressed  on,  with 
eager  curiosity.  "Stand  off!"  cried  the  fiery  Ambrosio,  dash- 
ing the  throng  from  around  him.  Then  turning  to  the  familiars, 
with  sudden  moderation,  "My  friends,"  said  he,  "deliver  this 
poor  girl  to  me.  Her  distress  has  turned  her  brain ;  she  has 
escaped  from  her  friends  and  protectors  this  morning ;  but  a 
little  quiet  and  kind  treatment  will  restore  her  to  tranquillity." 

"I  am  not  mad!  I  am  not  mad!"  cried  she,  vehemently. 
"  Oh,  save  me ! — save  me  from  these  men !  I  have  no  protector 
on  earth  but  my  father,  and  him  they  are  murdering!" 

The  familiars  shook  their  heads ;  her  wildness  corroborated 
«.^  assertions  of  Don  Ambrosio,  ;md  his  apparent  rank  conv 


THE  STUD  EST  OP  SALAMANCA.  157 

inanded  respect  and  belief.  They  relinquished  their  charge  to 
him,  and  he  was  consigning  the  struggling  Inez  to  Ins  creatures. 

"Let  go  your  hold,  villain!"  cried  a  voice  from  among  the 
crowd — and  Antonio  was  seen  eagerly  tearing  his  way  through 
the  press  of  people. 

1 '  Seize  him !  seize  him !"  cried  Don  Ambrosio  to  the  familiars, 
' '  'tis  an  accomplice  of  the  sorcerer's. " 

"  Liar!1'  retorted  Antonio,  as  he  thrust  the  mob  to  the  right 
and  left,  and  forced  himself  to  the  spot. 

The  sword  of  Don  Ambrosio  flashed  in  an  instant  from  the 
scabbard;  the  student  was  armed,  and  equally  alert.  There 
was  a  fierce  clash  of  weapons :  the  crowd  made  way  for  them 
as  they  fought,  and  closed  again,  so  as  to  hide  them  from  the 
view  of  Inez.  All  was  tumult  and  confusion  for  a  moment; 
when  there  was  a  kind  of  shout  from  the  spectators,  and  the 
mob  again  opening,  she  beheld,  as  she  thought,  Antonio  welter- 
ing in  his  blood. 

This  new  shock  was  too  great  for  her  already  overstrained 
intellect.  A  giddiness  seized  upon  her;  every  thing  seemed  to 
whirl  before  her  eyes ;  she  gasped  some  incoherent  words,  and 
sunk  senseless  upon  the  ground. 

Days — weeks  elapsed,  before  Inez  returned  to  consciousness. 
At  length  she  opened  her  eyes,  as  if  out  of  a  troubled  sleep. 
She  was  lying  upon  a  magnificent  bed,  in  a  chamber  richly 
furnished  with  pier-glasses,  and  massive  tables  inlaid  with 
silver,  of  exquisite  workmanship.  The  walls  were  covered 
with  tapestry;  the  cornices  richly  gilded;  through  the  door, 
which  stood  open,  she  perceived  a  superb  saloon,  with  statues 
and  crystal  lustres,  and  a  magnificent  suite  of  apartments 
beyond.  The  casements  of  the  room  were  open  to  admit  the 
soft  breath  of  summer,  which  stole  in,  laden  with  perfumes 
from  a  neighbouring  garden ;  from  whence,  also,  the  refreshing 
sound  of  fountains  and  the  sweet  notes  of  birds  came  in  mingled 
music  to  her  ear. 

Female  attendants  were  moving,  with  noiseless  step,  about 
the  chamber:  but  she  feared  to  address  them.  She  doubted 
whether  this  was  not  all  delusion,  or  whether  she  was  not  still 
in  the  palace  of  Don  Ambrosio,  and  that  her  escape,  and  all  its 
circumstances,  had  not  been  but  a  feverish  dream.  She  closed 
her  eyes  again,  endeavouring  to  recall  the  past,  and  to  sepa- 
rate the  real  from  the  imaginary.  The  last  scenes  of  con* 
sciousness,  however,  rushed  too  forcibly,  with  all  their  horrors, 
tfO  her  mind  to  be  doubted,  and  she  turned  shuddering  from 


158  BRACEBItlDGE  HALL. 

the  recollection,  to  gaze  once  more  on  the  quiet  and  sereno 
magnificence  around  her.  As  she  again  opened  her  eyes,  they 
rested  on  an  object  that  at  once  dispelled  every  alarm.  At  the 
head  of  her  bed  sat  a  venerable  form,  watching  over  her  with 
a  look  of  fond  anxiety — it  was  her  father ! 

I  will  not  attempt  to  describe  the  scene  that  ensued ;  nor  the 
moments  of  rapture  which  more  than  repaid  all  the  sufferings 
that  her  affectionate  heart  had  undergone.  As  soon  as  their 
feelings  had  become  more  calm,  the  alchymist  stepped  out  of 
the  room  to  introduce  a  stranger,  to  whom  he  was  indebted  for 
his  life  and  liberty.  He  returned,  leading  in  Antonio,  no 
longer  in  his  poor  scholar's  garb,  but  in  the  rich  dress  of  a 
nobleman. 

The  feelings  of  Inez  were  almost  overpowered  by  these  sud- 
den reverses,  and  it  was  some  time  before  she  was  sufficiently 
composed  to  comprehend  the  explanation  of  this  seeming 
romance. 

It  appeared  that  the  lover,  who  had  sought  her  affections  in 
the  lowly  guise  of  a  student,  was  only  son  and  heir  of  a  power- 
ful grandee  of  Valentia.  He  had  been  placed  at  the  university 
of  Salamanca;  but  a  lively  curiosity,  and  an  eagerness  for 
adventure,  had  induced  him  to  abandon  the  university,  with- 
out his  father's  consent,  and  to  visit  various  parts  of  Spain. 
His  rambling  inclination  satisfied,  he  had  remained  incognito 
for  a  time  at.  Granada,  until,  by  farther  study  and  self -regula- 
tion, he  could  prepare  himself  to  return  home  with  credit,  and 
atone  for  his  transgressions  against  paternal  authority. 

How  hard  he  had  studied,  does  not  remain  on  record.  All 
that  we  know  is  his  romantic  adventure  of  the  tower.  It  was 
at  first  a  mere  youthful  caprice,  excited  by  a  glimpse  of  a 
beautiful  face.  In  becoming  a  disciple  of  the  alchymist,  he 
probably  thought  of  nothing  more  than  pursuing  a  light  love 
affair.  Farther  acquaintance,  however,  had  completely  fixed 
his  affections ;  and  he  had  determined  to  conduct  Inez  and  her 
father  to  Valentia,  and  to  trust  to  her  merits  to  secure  his 
father's  consent  to  their  union. 

In  the  meantime,  he  had  been  traced  to  his  concealment. 
His  father  had  received  intelligence  of  his  being  entangled  in 
the  snares  of  a  mysterious  adventurer  and  his  daughter,  and 
likely  to  become  the  dupe  of  the  fascinations  of  the  latter. 
Trusty  emissaries  had  been  despatched  to  seize  upon  him  by 
main  force,  and  convey  him  without  delay  to  the  paternal 
home. 


THE  ST  I  J)h\ XT  OF  SALAMANCA.  159 

What  eloquence  lie  had  used  with  his  father,  to  convince  him 
of  the  innocence,  the  honour,  and  the  high  descent  of  the 
alchymist,  and  of  the  exalted  worth  of  his  daughter,  does  not 
appear.  All  that  we  know  is,  that  the  father,  though  a  very- 
passionate,  was  a  very  reasonable  man,  as  appears  by  his  con- 
senting that  his  son  should  return  to  Granada,  and  conduct 
Inez  as  his  affianced  bride  to  Valentia. 

Away,  then,  Don  Antonio  hurried  back,  full  of  joyous  antici- 
pations.  He  still  forbore  to  throw  off  his  disguise,  fondly  pic- 
turing to  himself  what  would  be  the  surprise  of  Inez,  when, 
having  won  her  heart  and  hand  as  a  poor  wandering  scholar, 
he  should  raise  her  and  her  father  at  once  to  opulence  and 
splendour. 

On  his  arrival  he  had  been  shocked  at  finding  the  tower 
deserted  by  its  inhabitants.  In  vain  he  sought  for  intelligence 
concerning  them;  a  mystery  hung  over  their  disappearance 
which  he  could  not  penetrate,  until  he  was  thunderstruck,  on 
accidentally  reading  a  list  of  the  prisoners  at  the  impending 
auto  da  f  e,  to  find  the  name  of  his  venerable  master  among  the 
condemned. 

It  was  the  very  morning  of  the  execution.  The  procession 
was  already  on  its  way  to  the  grand  square.  Not  a  moment 
was  to  be  lost.  The  grand  inquisitor  was  a  relation  of  Don 
Antonio,  though  they  had  never  met.  His  first  impulse  was  to 
make  himself  known;  to  exert  all  his  family  influence,  the 
weight  of  his  name,  and  the  power  of  his  eloquence,  in  vindica- 
tion of  the  alchymist.  But  the  grand  inquisitor  was  already 
proceeding,  in  all  his  pomp,  to  the  place  where  the  fatal  cere- 
mony  was  to  be  performed.  How  was  he  to  be  approached  ? 
Antonio  threw  himself  into  the  crowd,  in  a  fever  of  anxiety, 
and  was  forcing  his  way  to  the  scene  of  horror,  where  he 
arrived  just  in  time  to  rescue  Inez,  as  has  been  mentioned. 

It  was  Don  Ambrosio  that  fell  in  their  contest.  Being  desper- 
ately wounded,  and  thinking  his  end  approaching,  he  had  con- 
fessed to  an  attending  father  of  the  inquisition,  that  he  was  the 
sole  cause  of  the  alchymist's  condemnation,  and  that  the  evi- 
dence on  which  it  was  grounded  was  altogether  false.  The 
testimony  of  Don  Antonio  came  in  corroboration  of  this 
avowal ;  and  his  relationship  to  the  grand  inquisitor  had,  in  all 
probability,  its  proper  weight.  Thus  was  the  poor  alchynrist 
snatched,  in  a  manner,  from  the  very  flames;  and  so  great  had 
been  the  sympathy  awakened  in  his  case,  that  for  once  a  popu- 
lace rejoiced  at  being  disappointed  of  an  execution. 


160  PVACKimilHJE  HALL. 

The  residue  of  the  story  may  readily  be  imagined,  by  every 
one  versed  in  this  valuable  kind  of  history.  Don  Antonio 
espoused  the  lovely  Inez,  and  took  her  and  her  father  with  him 
to  Valentia.  As  she  had  been  a  loving  and  dutiful  daughter, 
so  she  proved  a  true  and  tender  wife.  It  was  not  long  before 
Don  Antonio  succeeded  to  his  father's  titles  and  estates,  and 
he  and  his  fair  spouse  were  renowned  for  being  the  handsom- 
est and  happiest  couple  in  all  Valentia. 

As  to  Don  Ambrosio,  he  partially  recovered  to  the  enjoyment 
of  a  broken  constitution  and  a  blasted  name,  and  hid  his 
remorse  and  disgrace  in  a  convent ;  while  the  poor  victim  of 
his  arts,  who  had  assisted  Inez  in  her  escape,  unable  to  con- 
quer the  early  passion  that  he  had  awakened  in  her  bosom, 
though  convinced  of  the  baseness  of  the  object,  retired  from 
the  world,  and  became  an  humble  sister  in  a  nunnery. 

The  worthy  alchymist  took  up  his  abode  with  his  children. 
A  pavilion,  in  the  garden  of  their  palace,  was  assigned  to  him 
as  a  laboratory,  where  he  resumed  his  researches  with  reno- 
vated ardour,  after  the  grand  secret.  He  was  now  and  then 
assisted  by  his  son-in-law ;  but  the  latter  slackened  grievously 
in  his  zeal  and  diligence,  after  marriage.  Still  he  would  listen 
with  profound  gravity  and  attention  to  the  old  man's  rhapso- 
dies, and  his  quotations  from  Paracelsus,  Sandivogius,  and 
Pietro  D'Abano,  which  daily  grew  longer  and  longer.  In  this 
way  the  good  alchymist  lived  on  'quietly  and  comfortably,  to 
what  is  called  a  good  old  age,  that  is  to  say,  an  age  that  is 
good  for  nothing ;  and  unfortunately  for  mankind,  was  hurried 
out  of  life  in  his  ninetieth  year,  just  as  he  was  on  the  point  of 
discovering  the  Philosopher's  Stone. 


Such  was  the  story  of  the  captain's  friend,  with  which  we 
whiled  away  the  morning.  The  captain  was,  every  now  and 
then,  interrupted  by  questions  and  remarks,  which  I  have  not 
mentioned,  lest  I  should  break  the  continuity  of  the  tale.  He 
was  a  little  disturbed,  also,  once  or  twice,  by  the  general,  who 
fell  asleep,  and  breathed  rather  hard,  to  the  great  horror  and 
annoyance  of  Lady  Lillycraft.  In  a  long  and  tender  love 
scene,  also,  which  was  particularly  to  her  ladyship's  taste,  the 
unlucky  general,  having  his  head  a  little  sunk  upon  his  breast, 
kept  making  a  sound  at  regular  intervals,  very  much  like  the 
word  pish,  long  drawn  out.  At  length  he  made  an  odd  abrupt 
guttural  sound,  that  suddenly  awoke  him ;  he  hemmed,  looked 
about  with  a  slight  degree  of  consternation,  and  then  began  to 


THE  STUDENT  OF  SALAMANCA. 


161 


play  with  her  ladyship's  work-bag,  which,  however,  she  rather 
pettishly  withdrew.  The  steady  sound  of  the  captain's  voice 
was  still  too  potent  a  soporific  for  the  poor  general ;  he  kept 
gleaming  up  and  sinking  in  the  socket,  until  the  cessation  of 
the  tale  again  roused  him,  when  he  started  awake,  put  his 
foot  down  upon  Lady  Lillycraft's  cur,  the  sleeping  Beauty, 
which  yelped  and  seized  him  by  the  leg,  and,  in  a  moment, 
the  whole  library  resounded  with  yelpings  and  exclamations. 
Never  did  man  more  completely  mar  his  fortunes  while  he  was 
asleep.  Silence  being  at  length  restored,  the  company  expressed 
their  thanks  to  the  captain,  and  gave  various  opinions  of  the 
story.  The  parson's  mind,  I  found,  had  been  continually  run- 
ning upon  the  leaden  manuscripts,  mentioned  in  the  beginning, 
as  dug  up  at  Granada,  and  he  put  several  eager  questions  to 
the  captain  on  the  subject.  The  general  could  not  well  make 
out  the  drift  of  the  story,  but  thought  it  a  little  confused.  "I 
am  glad,  however,"  said  he,  "that  they  burnt  the  old  chap 
of  the  tower;  I  have  no  doubt  he  was  a  notorious  impostor." 


Tend  of  vol.  one,] 


BRACEBRIDGE  HALL; 

OR, 

THE     HUMOURISTS 

A  MEDLEY. 
By  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,   Gent. 


VOLUME   SECOND. 


Under  this  cloud  I  walk,  Gentlemen ;  pardon  my  rude  assault.  I  am  a  traveller, 
who.  having  surveyed  most  of  the  terrestrial  angles  of  this  globe,  am  hithei 
arrived,  to  peruse  this  little  spot.— Christmas  Ordinary. 

ENGLISH  COUNTRY  GENTLEMEN. 

His  certain  life,  that  never  can  deceive  him, 

Is  full  of  thousand  sweets,  and  rich  content ; 
The  smooth-leaved  beeches  in  the  field  receive  him 

With  coolest  ehade,  till  noontide's  heat  be  spent. 
His  life  is  neither  tost  in  boisterous  seas 

Or  the  vexatious  world ;  or  lost  in  slothful  ease. 
Pleased  and  full  blest  he  lives,  when  he  his  God  can  please. 

— Phineas  Fletcher. 

I  take  great  pleasure  m  accompanying  the  Squire  in  his  per- 
ambulations about  his  estate,  ki  which  he  is  often  attended  by 
a  kind  of  cabinet  council.  His  prime  minister,  the  steward, 
is  a  very  worthy  and  honest  old  man,  that  assumes  a  right  of 
way ;  that  is  to  say,  a  right  to  have  his  own  way,  from  having 
lived  time  out  of  mind  on  the  place.  He  loves  the  estate  even 
better  than  he  does  the  Squire;  and  thwarts  the  latter  sadly  in 
many  of  his  projects  of  improvement,  being  a  little  prone  to 
disapprove  of  every  plan  that  does  not  originate  with  himself. 

In  the  course  of  one  of  these  perambulations,  I  have  known 
the  Squire  to  point  out  some  important  alteration  which  he 


164  BRACEBRIDOE  HALL. 

was  contemplating,  in  the  disposition  or  cultivation  of  the 
grounds ;  this,  of  course,  would  be  opposed  by  the  steward,  and 
a  long  argument  would  ensue,  over  a  stile,  or  on  a  rising  piece 
of  ground,  until  the  Squire,  who  has  a  high  opinion  of  the 
other's  ability  and  integrity,  would  be  fain  to  give  up  the 
point.  This  concession,  I  observed,  would  immediately  mollify 
the  old  man ;  and,  after  walking  over  a  field  or  two  in  silence, 
with  his  hands  behind  his  back,  chewing  the  cud  of  reflection, 
he  would  suddenly  turn  to  the  Squire,  and  observe,  that  "he 
had  been  turning  the  matter  over  in  his  mind,  and,  upon  the 
whole,  he  believed  he  would  take  his  honour's  advice." 

Christy,  the  huntsman,  is  another  of  the  Squire's  occasional 
attendants,  to  whom  he  continually  refers  in  all  matters  of 
local  history,  as  to  a  chronicle  of  the  estate,  having,  in  a  man- 
ner, been  acquainted  with  many  of  the  trees,  from  the  very 
time  that  they  were  acorns.  Old  Nimrod,  as  has  been  shown, 
is  rather  pragmatical  in  those  points  of  knowledge  on  which 
he  values  himself ;  but  the  Squire  rarely  contradicts  him,  and 
is,  in  fact,  one  of  the  most  indulgent  potentates  that  ever  was 
henpecked  by  his  ministry. 

He  often  laughs  about  it  himself,  and  evidently  yields  to 
these  old  men  more  from  the  bent  of  his  own  humour  than  from 
any  want  of  proper  authority.  He  likes  this  honest  indepen- 
dence of  old  age,  and  is  well  aware  that  these  trusty  followers 
love  and  honour  him  in  their  hearts.  He  is  perfectly  at  ease 
about  his  own  dignity,  and  the  respect  of  those  around  him; 
nothing  disgusts  him  soone^  than  any  appearance  of  fawning 
or  sycophancy. 

I  really  have  seen  no  display  of  royal  state,  that  could  com- 
pare with  one  of  the  Squire's  progresses  about  his  paternal  fields 
and  through  his  hereditary  woodlands,  with  several  of  these 
faithful  adherents  about  him,  and  followed  by  a  body-guard  of 
dogs.  He  encourages  a  frankness  and  manliness  of  deport- 
ment among  his  dependants,  and  is  the  personal  friend  of  his 
tenants;  inquiring  into  their  concerns,  and  assisting  them  in 
times  of  difficulty  and  hardship.  This  has  rendered  him  one  of 
the  most  popular,  and  of  course  one  of  the  happiest,  of  land- 
lords. 

Indeed,  I  do  not  know  a  more  enviable  condition  of  life, 
than  that  of  an  English  gentleman,  of  sound  judgment  and 
good  feelings,  who  passes  the  greater  part  of  his  time  on  an 
hereditary  estate  in  the  country.  From  the  excellence  of  the 
roads,  and  the  rapidity  and  exactness  of  the  public  convey- 


ENGLISH  COUNTRY  GENTLEMEN.  165 

ances,  he  is  enabled  to  command  all  the  comforts  and  conven- 
iences, all  che  intelligence  and  novelties  of  the  capital,  while 
he  is  removed  from  its  hurry  and  distraction.  He  has  ample 
means  of  occupation  and  amusement,  within  his  own  domains ; 
he  may  diversify  his  time,  by  rural  occupations,  by  rural 
sports,  by  study,  and  by  the  delights  of  friendly  society  col- 
lected within  his  own  hospitable  halls. 

Or,  if  his  views  and  feelings  are  of  a  more  extensive  and 
liberal  nature,  he  has  it  greatly  in  his  power  to  do  good,  and 
to  have  that  good  immediately  reflected  back  upon  himself. 
He  can  render  essential  services  to  his  country,  by  assisting  in 
the  disinterested  administration  of  the  laws ;  by  watching  ove* 
the  opinions  and  principles  of  the  lower  orders  around  him ;  by 
diffusing  among  them  those  lights  which  may  be  important 
to  their  welfare-;  by  mingling  frankly  among  them,  gaining 
their  confidence,  becoming  the  immediate  auditor  of  their  com- 
plaints, informing  himself  of  their  wants,  making  himself  a 
channel  through  which  their  grievances  may  be  quietly  com- 
municated to  the  proper  sources  of  mitigatioii  and  relief:  or 
by  becoming,  if  need  be,  the  intrepid  and  incorruptible  guar- 
dian of  their  liberties — the  enlightened  champion  of  their 
rights. 

All  this,  it  appears  to  me,  can  be  done  without  any  sacrifice 
of  personal  dignity,  without  any  degrading  arts  of  popularity, 
without  any  truckling  to  vulgar  prejudices  or  concurrence  in 
vulgar  clamour;  but  by  the  steady  influence  of  sincere  and 
friendly  counsel,  of  fair,  upright,  and  generous  deportment. 
Whatever  may  be  said  of  English  mobs  and  English  dema- 
gogues, I  have  never  met  with  a  people  more  open  to  reason, 
more  considerate  in  their  tempers,  more  tractable  by  argument 
in  the  roughest  times,  than  the  English.  They  are  remarkably 
quick  at  discerning  and  appreciating  whatever  is  manly  and 
honourable.  They  are,  by  nature  and  habit,  methodical  and 
orderly;  and  they  feel  the  value  of  all  that  is  regular  and 
respectable.  They  may  occasionally  be  deceived  by  sophistry. 
and  excited  into  turbulence  by  public  distresses  and  the  mis- 
representations of  designing  men ;  but  open  their  eyes,  and  they 
will  eventually  rally  round  the  landmarks  of  steady  truth  and 
deliberate  good  sense.  They  are  fond  of  established  customs-. 
they  are  fond  of  long-established  names ;  and  that  love  of  order 
and  quiet  which  characterizes  the  nation,  gives  a  vast  influence 
to  the  descendants  of  the  old  families,  whose  forefathers  have 
been  lords  of  the  soil  from  time  immemorial. 


166  BRACEBRIDOK  HALL. 

It  is  when  the  rich  and  well-educated  and  highly -privileged 
classes  neglect  their  duties,  when  they  neglect  to  study  the  in- 
terests, and  conciliate  the  affections,  and  instruct  the  opinions, 
and  champion  the  rights  of  the  people,  that  the  latter  become 
discontented  and  turbulent,  and  fall  into  the  hands  of  dema 
gogues :  the  demagogue  always  steps  in,  where  the  patriot  is 
wanting.  There  is  a  common  high-handed  cant  among  the 
high-feeding,  and,  as  they  fancy  themselves,  high-minded  men, 
about  putting  down  the  mob;  but  all  true  physicians  know  that 
it  is  better  to  sweeten  the  blood  than  attack  the  tumour,  to 
apply  the  emollient  rather  than  the  cautery.  It  is  absurd,  in  a 
country  like  England,  where  there  is  so  much  freedom,  and 
such  a  jealousy  of  right,  for  any  man  to  assume  an  aristocrati- 
cal  tone,  and  to  talk  superciliously  of  the  common  people. 
There  is  no  rank  that  makes  him  independent  of  the  opinions 
and  affections  of  his  fellow-men ;  there  is  no  rank  nor  distinc- 
tion that  severs  Mm  from  his  fellow-subjects ;  and  if,  by  any 
gradual  neglect  or  assumption  on  the  one  side,  and  discontent 
and  jealousy  on  the  other,  the  orders  of  society  should  really 
separate,  let  those  who  stand  on  the  eminence  beware  that  the 
chasm  is  not  mining  at  their  feet.  The  orders  of  society,  in  all 
well-constituted  governments,  are  mutually  bound  together, 
and  important  to  each  other ;  there  can  be  no  such  thing  in 
free  government  as  a  vacuum ;  and  whenever  one  is  likely  to 
take  place,  by  the  drawing  off  of  the  rich  and  intelligent  from 
the  poor,  the  bad  passions  of  society  will  rush  in  to  fill  up  t\\i 
space,  and  rend  the  whole  'asunder. 

Though  born  and  brought  up  in  a  republic,  and  more  am 
more  confirmed  in  republican  principles  by  every  year's  obser- 
vation and  experience,  yet  I  am  not  insensible  to  the  excellenc 
that  may  exist  in  other  forms  of  government,  nor  to  the  fact 
that  they  may  be  more  suitable  to  the  situation  and  circum- 
stances of  the  countries  in  which  they  exist :  I  have  endeav- 
oured rather  to  look  at  them  as  they  are,  and  to  observe  Iioa 
they  are  calculated  to  effect  the  end  which  they  propose.  Con- 
sidering, therefore,  the  mixed  nature  of  the  government  of  thi 
country,  and  its  representative  form,  I  have  looked  with  admi- 
ration at  the  manner  in  which  the  wealth  and  influence  anc 
intelligence  were  spread  o\er  its  whole  surface;  not  as  in  som( 
monarchies,  drained  from  the  country,  and  collected  in  towns 
and  cities.  I  have  considered  the  great  rural  establishments  of 
the  nobility,  and  the  lesser  establishments  of  the  gentry,  as 
many  reservoirs  of  wealth  and  intelligence  distributed  about 


ENGLISH  COUNTRY  GENTLEMEN.  167 

the  kingdom,  apart  from  the  towns,  to  irrigate,  freshen,  and 
fertilize  the  surrounding  country.  I  have  looked  upon  them. 
too,  as  the  august  retreat  of  patriots  and  statesmen,  where,  in 
the  enjoyment  of  honourable  independence  and  elegant  leisure, 
they  might  train  up  their  minds  to  appear  in  those  legislative 
assemblies,  whose  debates  and  decisions  form  the  study  and 
precedents  of  other  nations,  and  involve  the  interests  of  the 
world. 

I  have  been  both  surprised  and  disappointed,  therefore,  at 
finding  that  on  this  subject  I  was  often  indulging  in  an  Utopian 
dream,  rather  than  a  well-founded  opinion.  I  have  been 
concerned  at  rinding  that  these  fine  estates  were  too  often  in- 
volved, and  mortgaged,  or  placed  in  the  hands  of  creditors,  and 
the  owners  exiled  from  their  paternal  lands.  There  is  an 
extravagance,  I  am  told,  that  runs  parallel  with  wealth;  a 
lavish  expenditure  among  the  great ;  a  senseless  competition 
among  the  aspiring ;  a  heedless,  joyless  dissipation  among  all 
the  upper  ranks,  that  often  beggars  even  these  splendid  estab- 
lishments, breaks  down  the  pride  and  principles  of  their  pos- 
sessors, and  makes  too  many  of  them  mere  )lace-hunters,  or 
shifting  absentees.  It  is  thus  that  so  many  are  thrown  into  the 
hands  of  government ;  and  a  court,  which  ought  to  be  the  most 
pure  and  honourable  in  Europe,  is  so  often  degraded  by  noble, 
but  importunate  tirne-servers.  It  is  thus,  too,  that  so  many 
become  exiles  from  their  native  land,  crowding  the  hotels  of 
foreign  countries,  and  expending  upon  thankless  strangers  the 
wealth  so  hardly  drained  from  their  laborious  peasantry.  I 
have  looked  upon  these  latter  with  a  mixture  of  censure  and 
concern.  Knowing  the  almost  bigoted  fondness  of  an  English- 
man for  his  native  home,  I  can  conceive  what  must  be  their 
compunction  and  regret,  when,  amidst  the  sunburnt  plains  of 
France,  they  call  to  mind  the  green  fields  of  England;  the 
hereditary  groves  which  they  have  abandoned ;  and  the  hospi- 
tal>le  roof  of  their  fathers,  which  they  have  left  desolate,  or  to 
be  inhabited  by  strangers.  But  retrenchment  is  no  plea  Cor 
abandonment  of  country.  They  have  risen  with  the  prosperity 
of  the  land;  let  them  abide  its  fluctuations,  and  conform  to 
its  fortunes.  It  is  not  for  the  rich  to  fly  because  the  country 
is  suffering:  let  them  share,  in  their  relative  proportion,  the 
common  lot;  they  owe  it  to  the  land  that  has  elevated  them  to 
honour  and  affluence.  When  the  poor  have  to  diminish  their 
scanty  morsels  of  bread ;  when  t'  icy  have  to  compound  with 
the  cravings  of  nature,  and  study  with  how  little  they  can  do, 


168  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

and  not  be  starved ;  it  is  not  then  for  the  rich  to  fly,  and  di- 
minish still  farther  the  resources  of  the  poor,  that  they  them- 
selves may  live  in  splendour  in  a  cheaper  country.  Let  them 
rather  retire  to  their  estates,  and  there  practise  retrenchment. 
Let  them  return  to  that  noble  simplicity,  that  practical  good 
sense,  that  honest  pride,  which  form  the  foundation  of  true 
English  character,  and  from  them  they  may  again  rear  the 
°difice  of  fair  and  honourable  prosperity. 

On  the  rural  habits  of  the  English  nobility  and  gentry,  on 
the  manner  in  which  they  discharge  their  duties  of  their  patri- 
monial possessions,  depend  greatly  the  virtue  and  welfare  of 
the  nation.  So  long  as  they  pass  the  greater  part  of  their  time 
in  the  quiet  and  purity  of  the  country ;  surrounded  by  the 
monmnents  of  their  illustrious  ancestors ;  surrounded  by  every 
thing  that  can  inspire  generous  pride,  noble  emulation,  and 
amiable  and  magnanimous  sentiment ;  so  long  they  are  safe, 
and  in  them  the  nation  may  repose  its  interests  and  its  honour: 
But  the  moment  that  they  become  the  servile  throngers  of 
court  avenues,  and  give  themselves  up  to  the  political  intrigues 
and  heartless  dissipations  of  the  metropolis,  that  moment  they 
lose  the  real  nobility  of  their  natures,  and  become  the  mere 
leeches  of  the  country. 

That  the  great  majority  of  nobility  and  gentry  in  England 
are  endowed  with  high  notions  of  honour  and  independence,  I 
thoroughly  believe.  They  have  evidenced  it  lately  on  very 
important  questions,  and  have  given  an  example  of  adherence 
to  principle,  in  preference  to  party  and  power,  that  must  have 
astonished  many  of  the  venal  and  obsequious  courts  of  Europe. 
Such  are  the  glorious  effects  of  freedom,  when  infused  into  a 
constitution.  But  it  seems  to  me,  that  they  are  apt  to  forget 
the  positive  nature  of  their  duties,  and  to  fancy  that  their  emi- 
nent privileges  are  only  so  many  means  of  self-indulgence. 
They  should  recollect,  that  in  a  constitution  like  that  of  Eng- 
land, the  titled  orders  are  intended  to  be  as  useful  as  they  are 
ornamental,  and  it  is  their  virtues  alone  that  can  render  them 
both.  Their  duties  are  divided  between  the  sovereign  and  the 
subjects;  surrounding  and  giving  lustre  and  dignity  to  the 
throne,  and  at  the  same  time  tempering  and  mitigating  its 
rays,  until  they  are  transmitted  in  mild  and  genial  radiance  to 
the  people.  Born  to  leisure  and  opulence,  they  owe  the  exer- 
cise of  their  talents,  and  the  expenditure  of  their  wealth,  to 
their  native  country.  They  may  be  compared  to  the  clouds; 
which,  being  drawn  up  by  the  sun,  and  elevated  in  the  heavens, 


A  BACHELOR'S  C0NF'rf88I0N8  169 

reflect  and  magnify  his  splendour ;  while  they  repay  the  earth, 
from  which  they  derive  then*  sustenance,  by  returning  their 
treasures  to  its  bosom  in  fertilizing  showers. 


A  BACHELOR'S  CONFESSIONS. 

0 

"I'll  live  a  private,  pensive  single  life." 

— The  Collier  of  Croydon 

I  was  sitting  in  my  room,  a  morning  or  two  since,  reading,, 
when  some  one  tapped  at  the  door,  and  Master  Simon  entered. 
He  had  an  unusually  fresh  appearance ;  he  had  put  on  a  bright 
green  riding-coat,  with  a  bunch  of  violets  in  the  button-hole, 
and  had  the  air  of  an  old  bachelor  trying  to  rejuvenate  himself. 
He  had  not,  however,  his  usual  briskness  and  vivacity ;  but 
loitered  about  the  room  with  somewhat  of  absence  of  maimer, 
humming  the  old  song — "  Go,  lovely  rose,  tell  her  that  wastes 
her  time  and  me ;"  and  then,  leaning  against  the  window,  and 
looking  upon  the  landscape,  he  uttered  a  very  audible  sigh. 
As  I  had  not  been  accustomed  to  see  Master  Simon  in  a  pensive 
mood.  I  thought  there  might  be  some  vexation  preying  on  his 
mind,  and  I  endeavoured  to  introduce  a  cheerful  strain  of  con- 
versation ;  but  he  was  not  in  the  vein  to  follow  it  up,  and  pro- 
posed that  we  should  take  a  walk. 

It  was  a  beautiful  morning,  of  that  soft  vernal  temperature, 
that  seems  to  thaw  all  the  frost  out  of  one's  blood,  and  to  set 
all  nature  in  a  ferment.  The  very  fishes  felt  its  influence ;  the 
cautious  trout  ventured  out  of  his  dark  hole  to  seek  his  mate ; 
the  roach  and  the  dace  rose  up  to  the  surface  of  the  brook  to 
bask  in  the  sunshine,  and  the  amorous  frog  piped  from  among 
the  rushes.  If  ever  an  oyster  can  really  fall  in  love,  as  has 
been  said  or  sung,  it  must  be  on  such  a  morning. 

The  weather  certainly  had  its  effect  even  upon  Master  Simon, 
for  he  seemed  obstinately  bent  upon  the  pensive  mood.  Instead 
of  stepping  briskly  along,  smacking  his  dog-whip,  whistling 
quaint  ditties,  or  telling  sporting  anecdotes,  he  leaned  on  my 
arm,  and  talked  about  the  approaching  nuptials ;  from  whence 
he  made  several  digressions  upon  the  character  of  womankind, 
touched  a  little  upon  the  tender  passion,  and  made  sundry  very 
excellent,  though  rather  trite,  observations  upon  disappoint- 
ments in  iuve.    It  was  evident  that  he  had  something  on  Ms 


170  BRA  ( 'KB  JUDGE  1L I  /.  L. 

mind  which  he  wished  to  impart,  but  felt  awkward  in  ap- 
proaching it.  I  was  curious  to  see  to  what  this  strain  would 
lead ;  but  was  determined  not  to  assist  him.  Indeed,  I  mis- 
chievously pretended  to  turn  the  conversation,  and  talked  of 
his  usual  topics,  dogs,  horses,  and  hunting ;  but  he  was  very 
brief  in  his  replies,  and  invariably  got  back,  by  hook  or  by 
crook,  into  the  sentimental  vein. 

At  length  we  came  to  a  clump  of  trees  that  overhung  a  wins 
pering  brook,  with  a  rustic  bench  at  their  feet.  The  trees 
were  grievously  scored  with  letters  and  devices,  which  had 
grown  out  of  all  shape  and  size  by  the  growth  of  the  bark ;  and 
it  appeared  that  this  grove  had  served  as  a  kind  of  register  of 
the  family  loves  from  time  immemorial.  Here  Master  Simon 
made  a  pause,  pulled  up  a  tuft  of  flowers,  threw  them  one  by 
one  into  the  water,  and  at  length,  turning  somewhat  abruptly 
upon  me,  asked  me  if  I  had  ever  been  in  love.  I  confess  the 
question  startled  me  a  little,  as  I  am  not  over-fond  of  making 
confessions  of  my  amorous  f ollies ;  and  above  all,  should  never 
dream  of  choosing  my  friend  Master  Simon  for  a  confidant. 
He  did  not  wait,  however,  for  a  reply ;  the  inquiry  was  merely 
a  prelude  to  a  confession  on  his  own  part,  and  after  several 
circumlocutions  and  whimsical  preambles,  he  fairly  disbur- 
dened himself  of  a  very  tolerable  story  of  his  having  been 
crossed  in  love. 

The  reader  will,  very  probably,  suppose  that  it  related  to  the 
gay  widow  who  jilted  him  not  long  since  at  Doncaster  races; — 
no  such  thing.  It  was  about  a  sentimental  passion  that  he 
once  had  for  a  most  beautiful  young  lady,  who  wrote  poetry 
and  played  on  the  harp.,  He  used  to  serenade  her ;  and,  in- 
deed, he  described  several  tender  and  gallant  scenes,  in  which 
he  was  evidently  picturing  himself  in  his  mind's  eye  as  some 
elegant  hero  of  romance,  though,  unfortunately  for  the  tale,  I 
only  saw  him  as  he  stood  before  me,  a  dapper  little  old  bache- 
lor, with  a  face  like  an  apple  that  has  dried  with  the  bloom  on 
it. 

What  were  the  particulars  of  this  tender  tale,  I  have  already 
forgotten;  indeed,  I  listened  to  it  with  a  heart  like  a  very 
pebble-stone,  having  hard  work  to  repress  a  smile  while  Master 
Simon  was  putting  on  the  amorous  swain,  uttering  every  now 
and  then  a  sigh,  and  endeavouring  to  look  sentimental  and 
melancholy. 

All  that  I  recollect  is  that  the  lady,  according  to  his  account, 
was  certai?ily  a  little  touched ;   for  she  used  to  accept  all  the 


ttttLOR't    i  0NFB8BI0  171 

music  that  he  copied  for  her  harp,  and  all  the  patterns  that  he 
drew  for  her  dresses;  and  he  began  to  flatter  himself,  after  a 
long  course  of  delicate  attentions,  that  he  was  gradually  fan 
ning  up  a  gentle  flame  in  her  heart,  when  she  suddenly  accept- 
ed the  hand  of  a  rich,  boisterous,  fox-hunting  baronet,  without 
either  music  or  sentiment,  who  carried  her  by  storm  after  a 
f ortni gl it's  courtship. 

Master  Simon  could  not  help  concluding  by  some  observation 
about  ' '  modest  merit, "  and  the  power  of  gold  over  the  sex.  As 
a  remembrance  of  his  passion,  he  pointed  out  a  heart  carved 
on  the  bark  of  one  of  the  trees ;  but  which,  in  the  process  of 
time,  had  grown  out  into  a  large  excrescence ;  and  he  showed 
me  a  lock  of  her  hair,  which  he  wore  in  a  true-lover's  knot,  in 
a  large  gold  brooch. 

I  have  seldom  met  with  an  old  bachelor  that  had  not,  at  some 
time  or  other,  his  nonsensical  moment,  when  he  would  become 
tender  and  sentimental,  talk  about  the  concerns  of  the  heart, 
and  have  some  confession  of  a  delicate  nature  to  make.  Ah 
mast  every  man  has  some  little  trait  of  romance  in  his  life, 
which  he  looks  back  to  with  fondness,  and  about  which  he  is 
apt  to  grow  garrulous  occasionally.  He  recollects  himself  as 
he  was  at  the  time,  young  and  gamesome ;  and  forgets  that  his 
hearers  have  no  other  idea  of  the  hero  of  the  tale,  but  such  as 
he  may  appear  at  the  time  of  telling  it ;  peradventure,  a  with- 
ered, whimsical,  spindle-shanked  old  gentleman.  With  mar- 
ried men.  it  is  true,  this  is  not  so  frequently  the  case :  their 
amorous  romance  is  apt  to  decline  after  marriage ;  why,  I  cannot 
for  the  hf e  of  me  imagine ;  but  with  a  bachelor,  though  it  may 
slumber,  it  never  dies.  It  is  always  liable  to  break  out  again 
in  transient  flashes,  and  never  so  much  as  on  a  spring  morning 
in  the  country ;  or  on  a  winter  evening  when  seated  in  his  soli- 
tary chamber  stirring  up  the  fire  and  talking  of  matrimony. 

The  moment  that  Master  Simon  had  gone  through  his  con- 
fession, and,  to  use  the  common  phrase,  "had  made  a  clean 
breast  of  it  '*  he  be'caine  quite  himself  again.  He  had  settled 
the  point  which  had  been  worrying  his  mind,  and  doubtless 
considered  himself  established  as  a  man  of  sentiment  in  my 
opinion.  Before  we  had  finished  our  morning's  stroll,  he  was 
pnging  as  blithe  as  a  grasshopper,  whistling  to  his  dogs,  and 
telling  droll  stories :  and  I  recollect  that  he  was  particularly 
facetious  that  day  at  dinner  on  the  subject  of  matrimony,  and 
uttered  several  excellent  jokes,  not  to  be  found  in  Joe  Miller, 


172  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

that  made  the  bride  elect  blush  and  look  down ;  but  set  all  the 
old  gentlemen  at  the  table  in  a  roar,  and  absolutely  brought 
tears  into  the  general's  eyes. 


ENGLISH  GRAVITY. 

"Merrie  England:"  -  Ancient  Phrase. 

There  is  nothing  so  rare  as  for  a  man  to  ride  his  hobby  with- 
out molestation.  I  find  the  Squire  has  not  so  undisturbed  an 
indulgence  in  his  humours  as  I  had  imagined;  but  has  been 
repeatedly  thwarted  of  late,  and  has  suffered  a  kind  of  well- 
meaning  persecution  from  a  Mr.  Faddy,  an  old  gentleman  of 
some  weight,  at  least  of  purse,  who  has  recently  moved  into 
the  neighbourhood.  He  is  a  worthy  and  substantial  manufac- 
turer, who,  having  accumulated  a  large  fortune  by  dint  of 
steam-engines  and  spinning- jennies,  has  retired  from  business, 
and  set  up  for  a  country  gentleman.  He  has  taken  an  old 
country-seat,  and  refitted  it ;  and  painted  and  plastered  it,  until 
it  looks  not  unlike  his  own  manufactory.  He  has  been  par- 
ticularly careful  in  mending  the  walls  and  hedges,  and  putting 
up  notices  of  spring-guns  and  man-traps  in  every  part  of  his 
premises.  Indeed,  he  shows  great  jealousy  about  his  territorial 
rights,  having  stopped  up  a  footpath  that  led  across  his  fields, 
and  given  warning,  in  staring  letters,  that  whoever  was  found 
trespassing  on  those  grounds  would  be  prosecuted  with  the 
utmost  rigour  of  the  law.  He  has  brought  into  the  country 
with  him  all  the  practical  maxims  of  town,  and  the  bustling 
habits  of  business;  and  is  one  of  those  sensible,  useful,  prosing, 
troublesome,  intolerable  old  gentlemen,  that  go  about  wearying 
and  worrying  society  with  excellent  plans  for  public  utility. 

He  is  very  much  disposed  to  be  on  intimate  terms  with  the 
Squire,  and  calls  on  him  every  now  and  then,  with  some  pro- 
ject for  the  good  of  the  neighbourhood,  which  happens  to  run 
diametrically  opposite  to  some  one  or  other  of  the  Squire's 
peculiar  notions;  but  which  is  "too  sensible  a  measure"  to  be 
openly  opposed.  He  has  annoyed  him  excessively,  by  enforc- 
ing the  vagrant  laws ;  persecuting  the  gipsies,  and  endeavour- 
ing to  suppress  country  wakes  and  holiday  games ;  which  he 
considers  great  nuisances,  and  r3probates  as  causes  of  the  dead' 
Jy  sin  of  idleness. 


ENGLISH  GRAVITY.  173 

There  is  evidently  in  all  this  a  little  of  the  ostentation  of  newly- 
\  acquired  consequence ;  the  tradesman  is  gradually  swelling  into 
:  the  aristocrat ;  and  he  begins  to  grow  excessively  intolerant  of 
every  thing  that  is  not  genteel.  He  has  a  great  deal  to  say 
about  ''the  common  people:"  talks  much  of  his  park,  his  pre- 
serves, and  the  necessity  of  enforcing  the  game-laws  more 
strictly:  and  makes  frequent  use  of  the  phrase,  "the  gentry 
of  the  neighbourhood. " 

He  came  to  the  Hall  lately,  with  a  face  full  of  business,  that 
[he  and  the  Squire,  to  use  his  own  words,  "might  lay  their 
,  heads  together.*'  to  hit  upon  some  mode  of  putting  a  stop  to  the 
\  frolicking  at  the  village  on  the  approaching  May-day.  It 
drew,  he  said,  idle  people  together  from  all  parts  of  the  neigh- 
"bourhood,  who  spent  the  day  fiddling,  dancing,  and  carousing, 
!  instead  of  staying  at  home  to  work  for  their  families. 

Now.  as  the  Squire,  unluckily,  is  at  the  bottom  of  these  May- 
day revels,  it  may  be  supposed  that  the  suggestions  of  the 
*  sagacious  Mr.  Faddy  were  not  received  with  the  best  grace  in 
the  worjd.  It  is  true,  the  old  gentleman  is  too  courteous  to 
show  any  temper  to  a  guest  in  his  own  house ;  but  no  sooner 
was  he  gone,  than  the  indignation  of  the  Squire  found  vent,  at 
having  his  poetical  cobwebs  invaded  by  this  buzzing,  blue- 
bottle fly  of  traffic.  In  his  warmth,  he  inveighed  against  the 
whole  race  of  manufacturers,  who.  I  found,  were  sore  dis- 
turbers of  his  comfort.  ' '  Sir, "  said  he.  with  emotion.  * ;  it  makes 
my  heart  bleed,  to  see  all  our  fine  streams  dammed  up,  and 
bestrode  by  cotton-mills ;  our  valleys  smoking  with  steam-en- 
gines, and  the  din  of  the  hammer  and  the  loom  scaring  away 
all  our  rural  delight.  What's  to  become  of  merry  old  England, 
when  its  manor-houses  are  all  turned  into  manufactories,  and 
its  sturdy  peasantry  into  pin-makers  and  stocking- weavers  \  I 
have  looked  in  vain  for  merry  Sherwood,  and  all  the  green 
|  wood  haunts  of  Robin  Hood:  the  whole  country  is  covered 
with  manufacturing  towns.  I  have  stood  on  the  ruins  of  Dud- 
i  ley  Castle,  and  looked  round,  with  an  aching  heart,  on  what 
»  were  once  its  feudal  domains  of  verdant  and  beautiful  coun- 
try. Sir,  I  beheld  a  mere  campus  phlegrae;  a  region  of  fire: 
reeking  with  coal-pits,  and  furnaces,  and  smelting-houses, 
.  vomiting  forth  flames  and  smoke.  The  pale  and  ghastly  peo- 
ple, toiling  among  vile  exhalations,  looked  more  like  demons 
than  human  beings;  the  clanking  wheels  and  engines,  seen 
through -the  murky  atmosphere,  looked  like  instruments  of 
torture  in  tins  pandemonium.     What  is  to  become  of  the  coun- 


174  BRACEBIUDGE  HALL. 

try,  with  these  evils  rankling  in  its  v^ry  core?  Sir,  these  manu- 
facturers will  be  the  ruin  of  our  rural  manners;  they  will 
destroy  the  national  character;  they  will  not  leave  materials 
for  a  single  line  of  poetry !" 

The  Squire  is  apt  to  wax  eloquent  on  such  themes ;  and  I  . 
could  hardly  help  smiling  at  this  whimsical  lamentation  over 
national  industry  and  public  improvement,  I  am  told,  how- 
ever, that  he  really  grieves  at  the  growing  spirit  of  trade, 
as  destroying  the  charm  of  life.  He  considers  every  new 
shorthand  mode  of  doing  things,  as  an  inroad  of  snug  sordid 
method ;  and  thinks  that  this  will  soon  become  a  mere  matter- 
of-fact  world,  where  life  will  be  reduced  to  a  mathematical  cal- 
culation of  conveniences,  and  every  thing  will  be  done  by 

steam.  .  £ 

He  maintains,  also,  that  the  nation  has  declined  m  its  tree 
and  joyous  spirit,  in  proportion  as  it  has  turned  its  attention  to 
commerce  and  manufactures;  and  that,  in  old  times,  when 
England  was  an  idler,  it  was  also  a  merrier  little  island.  In 
support  of  this  opinion,  he  adduces  the  frequency  and  splen- 
dour of  ancient  festivals  and  merry-makings,  and  the  hearty 
spirit  with  which  they  were  kept  up  by  all  classes  of  people. 
His  memory  is  stored  with  the  accounts  given  by  Stow,  in  his 
Survey  of  London,  of  the  holiday  revels  at  the  inns  of  court, 
the  Christmas  mummeries,  and  the  masquings  and  bonfires 
about  the  streets.  London,  he  says,  in  those  days,  resembled 
the  continental  cities  in  its  picturesque  manners  and  amuse- 
ments. The  court  used  to  dance  after  dinner,  on  public  occa- 
sions. After  the  coronation  dinner  of  Richard  II.  for  example, 
the  king,  the  prelates,  the  nobles,  the  knights,  and  the  rest  of 
the  company,  danced  in  Westminster  Hall  to  the  music  of  the 
minstrels.  The  example  of  the  court  was  followed  by  the  mid- 
dling classes,  and  so  down  to  the  lowest,  and  the  whole  nation 
was  a  dancing,  jovial  nation.  He  quotes  a  lively  city  picture 
of  the  times,  given  by  Stow,  which  resembles  the  lively  scenes 
one  may  often  see  in  the  gay  city  of  Paris ;  for  he  tells  us  that  on 
holidays  after  evening  prayers,  the  maidens  in  London  used  to 
assemble  before  the  door,  in  sight  of  their  masters  and  dames, 
and  while  one  played  on  a  timbrel,  the  others  danced  for  gar- 
lands, hanged  athwart  the  street.  I 
"Where  will  we  meet  with  such  merry  groups  now-a-days?" 
the  Squire  will  exclaim  shaking  his  head  mournfully;-- "and 
then  as  to  the  gayety  that  prevailed  in  dress  throughout  all 
ranks  ot  society,  and  made  the  very  streets  so  fine  and  pictur 


ENGLISH   a  HA  V1TT.  175 

esque:  'I  have  myself,' says  Gervaise  Markham,  ' met  an  ordi- 
nary tapster  in  his  silk  stockings,  garters  deep  fringed  with 
gold  lace,  the  rest  of  his  apparel  suitable,  with  cloak  lined  with 
velvet!'  Nashe,  too,  who  wrote  in  L593,  exclaims  at  the  finery 
of  the  nation :  '  England,  the  player's  stage  of  gorgeous  attire, 
the  ape  of  all  nations'  superfluities,  the  continual  masquer  in 
outlandish  habiliments." ' 

Such  are  a  few  of  the  authorities  quoted  by  the  Squire,  by 
way  of  contrasting  what  he  supposes  to  have  been  the  former 
vivacity  of  the  nation  with  its  present  monotonous  character. 
V John  Bull,"  he  will  say,  ''was  then  a  gay  cavalier,  with  his 
sword  by  his  side  and  a  feather  in  his  cap ;  but  he  is  now  a  plod- 
ding citizen,  in  snuff-coloured  coat  and  gaiters. " 

By  the  by,  there  really  appears  to  have  been  some  change  in 
the  national  character,  since  the  days  of  which  the  Squire  is  so 
fond  of  talking;  those  days  when  this  little  island  acquired  its 
favourite  old  title  of  ; '  merry  England. "  This  may  be  attributed 
in  part  to  the  growing  hardships  of  the  times,  and  the  necessity 
of  turning  the  whole  attention  to  the  means  of  subsistence ;  but 
England's  gayest  customs  prevailed  at  times  when  her  common 
people  enjoyed  comparatively  few  of  the  comforts  and  conveni- 
ences that  they  do  at  present.  It  may  be  still  more  attributed 
to  the  universal  spirit  of  gain,  and  the  calculating  habits  that 
commerce  has  introduced;  but  I  am  inclined  to  attribute  it 
chiefly  to  the  gradual  increase  of  the  liberty  of  the  subject,  and 
the  growing  freedom  and  activity  of  opinion. 

A  free  people  are  apt  to  be  grave  and  thoughtful.  They  have 
high  and  important  matters  to  occupy  their  minds.  They  feel 
that  it  is  their  right,  their  interest,  and  their  duty,  to  mingle  in 
public  concerns,  and  to  watch  over  the  general  welfare.  The 
continual  exercise  of  the  mind  on  political  topics  gives  intenser 
habits  of  thinking,  and  a  more  serious  and  earnest  demeanour. 
A  nation  becomes  less  gay.  but  more  intellectually  active  and 
vigorous.  It  evinces  less  play  of  the  fancy,  but  more  power  of 
the  imagination ;  less  taste  and  elegance,  but  more  grandeur  of 
mind ;  less  animated  vivacity,  but  deeper  enthusiasm. 

It  is  when  men  are  shut  out  of  the  regions  of  manly  thought, 
by  a  despotic  government ;  when  every  grave  and  lofty  theme 
is  rendered  perilous  to  discussion  and  almost  to  reflection ;  it  is 
then  that  they  turn  to  the  safi  r  occupations  of  taste  and  amuse- 
ment; trifles  rise  to  importance,  and  occupy  the  craving  ac- 
tivity of  intellect.  No  being  is  more  void  of  care  and  reflection 
than  the  slave;  none  dances  move  gayly,  in  his  intervals  of 


176  BRACEB1UDGE  HALL. 

labour;  but  make  kirn  free,  give  him  rights  and  interests  to 
guard,  and  he  becomes  thoughtful  and  laborious. 

The  French  are  a  gayer  people  than  the  English.  Why? 
Partly  from  temperament,  perhaps ;  but  greatly  because  they 
have  been  accustomed  to  governments  which  surrounded  the 
free  exercise  of  thought  with  danger,  and  where  he  only  was 
safe  who  shut  his  eyes  and  ears  to  public  events,  and  enjoyed 
the  passing  pleasure  of  the  day.  Within  late  years,  they  have 
had  more  opportunity  of  exercising  their  minds;  and  within 
late  years,  the  national  character  has  essentially  changed. 
Never  did  the  French  enjoy  such  a  degree  of  freedom  as  they 
do  at  tins  moment ;  and  at  this  moment  the  French  are  com- 
paratively a  grave  people. 


GIPSIES. 

What's  that  to  absolute  freedom;  such  as  t lie  very  beggars  have;  to  feast  and 
revel  here  to-day,  and  yonder  to-morrow;  next  day  where  they  please;  and  so  on 
still,  the  whole  country  or  kingdom  over?  There's  liberty!  the  birds  of  the  air  can 
take  no  more.    Jovial  ( 

Since  the  meeting  with  the  gipsies,  which  I  have  related 
a  former  paper,  I  have  observed  several  of  them  haunting  the 
purlieus  of  the  Hall,  in  spite  of  a  positive  interdiction  of  the 
Squire.  They  are  part  of  a  gang  that  has  long  kept  about  this 
neighbourhood,  to  the  great  annoyance  of  the  farmers,  wh( 
poultry-yards  often  suffer  from  their  nocturnal  invasions. 
They  are,  however,  in  some  measure  patronized  by  the  Squire, 
who  considers  the  race  as  belonging  to  the  good  old  times; 
which,  to  confess  the  private  truth,  seem  to  have  abounded 
with  good-for-nothing  characters. 

This  roving  crew  is  called  "Starlight  Tom's  Gang,"  from  the 
name  of  its  chieftain,  a  notorious  poacher.  I  have  heard  re- 
peatedly of  the  misdeeds  of  this  "minion  of  the  moon;"  for 
every  midnight  depredation  that  takes  place  in  park,  or  fold, 
or  farm-yard,  is  laid  to  his  charge.  Starlight  Tom,  in  fact, 
answers  to  his  name ;  he  seems  to  walk  in  darkness,  and,  like  a 
fox,  to  be  traced  in  the  morning  by  the  mischief  he  has  done. 
He  reminds  me  of  that  fearful  personage  in  the  nursery  rhyme: 

Who  goes  round  the  house  at  night? 

None  but  bloody  Tom ! 
Who  steals  all  the  sheep  at  night? 

None  but  one  by  one ! 


GIPSIES.  177 

In  short,  Starlight  Tom  is  the  scapegoat  of  the  neighbourhood, 
but  so  cunning  and  adroit,  that  there  is  no  detecting  him.  Old 
Christy  and  the  game-keeper  have  watched  many  a  night,  in 
hopes  of  entrapping  him ;  and  Christy  often  patrols  the  park 
with  his  dogs,  for  the  purpose,  but  all  in  vain.  It  is  said  that 
the  Squire  winks  hard  at  his  misdeeds,  having  an  indulgent 
feeling  towards  the  vagabond,  because  of  his  being  very  expert 
at  all  kinds  of  games,  a  great  shot  with  the  cross-bow,  and  the 
best  morris-dancer  in  the  country. 

The  Squire  also  suffers  the  gang  to  lurk  unmolested  about 
the  skirts  of  his  estate,  on  condition  that  they  do  not  come 
about  the  house.  The  approaching  wedding,  however,  has 
made  a  kind  of  Saturnalia  at  the  Hall,  and  has  caused  a  sus- 
pension of  all  sober  rule.  It  has  produced  a  great  sensation 
throughout  the  female  part  of  the  household ;  not  a  housemaid 
but  dreams  of  wedding  favours,  and  has  a  husband  running  in 
her  head.  Such  a  time  is  a  harvest  for  the  gipsies :  there  is  a 
public  footpath  leading  across  one  part  of  the  park,  by  which 
they  have  free  ingress,  and  they  are  continually  hovering 
about  the  grounds,  telling  the  servant-girls'  fortunes,  or  getting 
smuggled  in  to  the  young  ladies. 

I  believe  the  Oxonian  amuses  himself  very  much  by  furnish- 
ing them  with  hints  in  private,  and  bewildering  all  the  weak 
brains  in  the  house  with  their  wonderful  revelations.  The 
general  certainly  was  very  much  astonished  by  the  communi- 
cations made  to  him  the  other  evening  by  the  gipsy  girl :  he 
kept  a  wary  silence  towards  us  on  the  subject,  and  affected  to 
treat  it  lightly ;  but  I  have  noticed  that  he  has  since  redoubled 
his  attentions  to  Lady  Lilly  craft  and  her  dogs. 

I  have  seen  also  Phoebe  Wilkins  the  housekeeper's  pretty 
and  love-sick  niece,  holding  a  long  conference  with  one  of  these 
old  sibyls  behind  a  large  tree  in  the  avenue,  and  often  looking 
round  to  see  that  she  was  not  observed.  I  make  no  doubt  that 
she  was  endeavouring  to  get  some  favourable  augury  about  the 
result  of  her  love-qu~rrel  with  young  Ready-Money,  as  oracles 
have  always  been  more  consulted  on  love  affairs  than  upon 
any  thing  else.  I  fear,  however,  that  in  this  instance  the  re- 
sponse was  not  so  favourable  as  usual ;  for  I  perceived  poor 
Phoebe  returning  pensively  towards  the  house,  her  head  hang- 
ing down,  her  hat  in  her  hand,  and  the  riband  trailing  along 
the  ground. 

At  another  time,  as  I  turned  a  corner  of  a  terrace,  at  the 
bottom  of  the  garden,  just  by  a  clump  of  trees,  and  a  large 


178  BBACEBRIDOE  HALL. 

■  urn,  1  came  upon  a  \>evy  of  the  young  girls  of  the  family 
attended  by  this  same  Phoebe  Wilkins.  I  was  at  a  loss  to 
comprehend  the  meaning  of  their  blushing  and  giggling,  and 
their  apparent  agitation,  until  I  saw  the  red  cloak  of  a  gipsy 
vanishing  among  the  shrubbery.  A  few  moments  after,  I 
caught  sight  of  Master  Simon  and  the  Oxonion  stealing  along 
one  of  the  walks  of  the  garden,  chuckling  and  laughing  at  their 
successful  waggery ;  having  evidently  put  the  gipsy  up  to  the 
thing,  and  instructed  her  what  to  say. 

After  all,  there  is  something  strangely  pleasing  in  these,  tam- 
perings  with  the  future,  even  where  we  are  convinced  of  the 
fallacy  of  the  prediction.  It  is  singular  how  willingly  the 
mind  will  half  deceive  itself,  and  with  what  a  degree  of  awe 
we  Avill  listen  to  these  babblers  about  futurity.  For  my  part, 
I  cannot  feel  angry  with  these  poor  vagabonds,  that  seek  to 
deceive  us  into  bright  hopes  and  expectations.  I  have  always 
been  something  of  a  castle-builder,  and  have  found  my  liveliest 
pleasures  to  arise  from  the  illusions  which  fancy  has  cast  over 
commonplace  realities.  As  I  get  on  in  life,  I  find  it  more  diffi- 
cult to  deceive  myself  in  this  delightful  manner ;  and  I  should 
be  thankful  to  any  prophet,  however  false,  that  would  conjure 
the  clouds  which  hang  over  futurity  into  palaces,  and  all  its 
doubtful  regions  into  fairy-land. 

The  Squire,  who,  as  I  have  observed,  has  a  private  good-will 
towards  gipsies,  has  suffered  considerable  annoyance  on  their 
account.  Not  that  they  requite  his  indulgence  with  ingrati- 
tude, for  they  do  not  depredate  very  flagrantly  on  his  estate ; 
but  because  their  pilferings  and  misdeeds  occasion  loud  mur- 
murs in  the  village.  I  can  readily  understand  the  old  gentle- 
man's humour  on  this  point ;  I  have  a  great  toleration  for  all 
kinds  of  vagrant  sunshiny  existence,  and  must  confess  I  take  a 
pleasure  in  observing  the  ways  of  gipsies.  The  English,  who 
are  accustomed  to  them  from  childhood,  and  often  suffer  from 
their  petty  depredations,  consider  them  as  mere  nuisances: 
but  I  have  been  very  much  struck  with  their  peculiarities, 
like  to  behold  their  clear  olive  complexions,  their  romantic 
black  eyes,  their  raven  locks,  their  lithe,  slender  figures ;  anc 
hear  them  in  low  silver  tones  dealing  forth  magnificent  prom- 
ises of  honours  and  estates,  of  world's  wealth,  and  ladies'  love. 

Their  mode  of  life,  foo,  has  something  in  it  very  fanciful  and 
picturesque.  They  are  the  free  denizens  of  nature,  and  main- 
tain a  primitive  independence,  in  spite  of  law  and  gospel ;  of 
county  gaols  and  country  magistrates.     It  is  curious  to  see  this 


GIPSIES.  179 

obstinate  adherence  to  the  wild,  unsettled  habits  of  savage  life 
transmitted  from  generation  to  generation,  and  preserved  in 
the  midst  of  one  of  the  most  cultivated,  populous,  and  sys- 
tematic countries  in  the  world.  They  are  totally  distinct  from 
the  busy,  thrifty  people  about  them.  They  seem  to  be,  like 
the  Indians  of  America,  either  above  or  below  the  ordinary 
cares  and  anxieties  of  mankind.  Heedless  of  power,  of  honours, 
of  wealth ;  and  indifferent  to  the  fluctuations  of  times ;  the  rise 
or  fall  of  grain,  or  stock,  or  empires,  they  seem  to  laugh  at  the 
toiling,  fretting  world  around  them,  and  to  live  according  to 
the  philosophy  of  the  old  song : 

"  Who  would  ambition  shun, 
And  loves  to  lie  i'  the  sun, 
Seeking  the  food  he  eats, 
And  pleased  with  what  he  gets, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither; 

Here  shall  he  see 

No  enemy, 
But  winter  and  rough  weather." 

In  this  way,  they  wander  from  county  to  county;  keeping 
about  the  purlieus  of  villages,  or  in  plenteous  neighbourhoods, 
where  there  are  fat  farms  and  rich  country-seats.  Their  en- 
campments are  generally  made  in  some  beautiful  spot— either 
a  green  shady  nook  of  a  road ;  or  on  the  border  of  a  common, 
under  a  sheltering  hedge ;  or  on  "the  skirts  of  a  fine  spreading 
wood.  They  are  always  to  be  found  lurking  about  fairs,  and 
races,  and  rustic  gatherings,  wherever  there  is  pleasure,  and 
throng,  and  idleness.  They  are  the  oracles  of  milk-maids  and 
simple  serving-girls ;  and  sometimes  have  even  the  honour  of 
perusing  the  white  hands  of  gentlemen's  daughters,  when 
rambling  about  their  fathers'  grounds.  They  are  the  bane  of 
good  housewives  and  thrifty  farmers,  and  odious  in  the  ©yes 
of  country  justices;  but,  like  all  other  vagabond  beings,  they 
have  something  to  commend  them  to  the  fancy.  They  are 
among  the  last  traces,  in  these  matter-of-fact  days,  «*  l;:r 
motley  population  of  former  times;  and  are  whimsically  asso* 
Bated  in  my  mind  with  fairies  and  *i -iichos,  Robin  Goodfellow, 
Robin  Hood,  and  the  other  fantastical  personages  of  poetry. 


180  BRACEBR1DQE  HALL. 


MAY-DAY  CUSTOMS. 

Happy  the  age,  arid  harmless  were  the  dayes, 

(For  then  true  love  and  amity  was  found,) 
When  every  village  did  a  May-pole  raise, 

And  Whitsun  ales  and  May-games  did  abound: 
And  all  the  lusty  yonkers  in  a  rout. 
With  merry  lasses  daunc'd  the  rod  about, 
Then  friendship  to  their  banquets  bid  the  guests, 
And  poore  men  far'd  the  better  for  their  feasts. 

— Pasquil's  Palinodia. 

The  month  of  April  has  nearly  passed  away,  and  we  are  fast 
approaching  that  poetical  day,  which  was  considered,  in  old 
times,  as  the  boundary  that  parted  the  frontiers  of  winter  and 
summer.  With  all  its  caprices,  however,  I  like  the  month  of 
April.  I  like  these  laughing  and  crying  days,  when  sun  and 
shade  seem  to  run  in  billows  over  the  landscape.  I  like  to  see 
the  sudden  shower  coursing  over  the  meadow,  and  giving  all 
nature  a  greener  smile ;  and  the  bright  sunbeams  chasing  the 
flying  cloud,  and  turning  all  its  drops  into  diamonds. 

I  was  enjoying  a  morning  of  the  kind,  in  company  with  the 
Squire,  in  one  of  the  finest  parts  of  the  park.  We  were  skirt- 
ing a  beautiful  grove,  and  he  was  giving  me  a  kind  of  bi( 
graphical  account  of  several  of  his  favourite  forest  trees,  when 
he  heard  the  strokes  of  an  axe  from  the  midst  of  a  thick  copse. 
The  Squire  paused  and  listened,  with  manifest  signs  of  uneasi- 
ness. He  turned  his  steps  in  the  direction  of  the  sound.  Th( 
strokes  grew  louder  and  louder  as  we  advanced ;  there  was 
evidently  a  vigorous  arm  wielding  the  axe.  The  Squire  quick- 
ned  his  pace,  but  in  vain ;  a  loud  crack,  and  a  succeeding 
jrash,  told  that  the  mischief  had  been  done,  and  some  child  of 
the  forest  laid  low.  When  we  came  to  the  place,  we  found 
Master  Simon  and  several  others  standing  about  a  tall  and 
beautifully  straight  young  tree,  which  had  just  been  felled. 

The  Squire,  though  a  man  of  most  harmonious  dispositions, 
was  completely  put  out  of  tune  by  this  circumstance.  He  felt 
like  a  monarch  vritnessing  the  murder  of  one  of  his  liege  sul 
jects,  and  demanded,  with  some  asperity,  the  meaning  of  the 
outrage.  It  turned  out  to  be  an  affair  of  Master  Simon's,  wh< 
had  selected  the  tree,  from  its  height  and  straightness,  for 
May-pole,  the  old  one  which  stood  on  the  village  green  being  un- 
fit for  farther  service.  If  any  thing  could  have  soothed  the  ire 
of  my  worthy  host,  it  would  have  been  the  reflection  that  his 


MAY-DAY  CUSTOMS.  181 

tree  had  fallen  in  so  good  a  cause;  and  I  saw  that  there  was  a 
great  struggle  between  his  fondness  for  his  groves,  and  his 
devotion  to  May-day.  He  could  not  contemplate  the  prostrate 
tree,  however,  without  indulging  in  lamentation,  and  making 
a  kind  of  funeral  eulogy,  like  Mark  Antony  over  the  body  of 
(  teesar;  and  he  forbade  that  any  tree  should  thenceforward  be 
•ut  down  on  his  estate,  without  a  warrant  from  himself;  being 
1  teiinined,  he  said,  to  hold  the  sovereign  powder  of  life  and 
death  in  his  own  hands. 

This  mention  of  the  May-pole  struck  my  attention,  and  I  in- 
quired whether  the  old  customs  connected  with  it  were  really 
kept  up  in  this  part  of  the  country.  The  Squire  shook  his 
head  mournfully ;  and  I  found  I  had  touched  on  one  of  his 
tender  points,  for  he  grew  quite  melancholy  in  bewailing  the 
total  decline  of  old  May-day.  Though  it  is  regularly  celebrated 
in  the  neighbouring  village,  yet  it  has  been  merely  resuscitated 
by  the  worthy  Squire,  and  is  kept  up  in  a  forced  state  of  exist- 
ence at  his  expense.  He  meets  with  continual  discourage- 
ments ;  and  finds  great  difficulty  in  getting  the  country  bump- 
kins to  play  their  parts  tolerably.  He  manages  to  have  every, 
year  a  "  Queen  of  the  May;"  but  as  to  Robin  Hood,  Friar  Tuck, 
the  Dragon,  the  Hobby-Horse,  and  all  the  other  motley  crew 
that  used  to  enliven  the  day  with  their  mummery,  he  has  not 
ventured  to  introduce  them. 

Still  I  looked  forward  with  some  interest  to  the  promised 
shadow  of  old  May-day,  even  though  it  be  but  a  shadow ;  and 
I  feel  more  and  more  pleased  Avith  the  whimsical  yet  harmless 
hobby  of  my  host,  which  is  surrounding  him  with  agreeable 
associations,  and  making  a  little  world  of  poetry  about  him. 
Brought  up,  as  I  have  been,  in  a  new  country,  I  may  appre- 
ciate too  highly  the  faint  vestiges  of  ancient  customs  which  I 
now  and  then  meet  with,  and  the  interest  I  express  in  them 
may  provoke  a  smile  from  those  who  are  negligently  suffering 
them  to  pass  away.  But  with  whatever  indifference  they  may 
be  regarded  by  those  "  to  the  manner  born,"  yet  in  my  mind 
the  lingering  flavour  of  them  imparts  a  charm  to  rustic  life, 
which  nothing  else  could  readily  supply. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  delight  I  felt  on  first  seeing  a  May- 
pole. It  was  on  the  banks  of  the  Dee,  close  by  the  picturesque 
old  bridge  that  stretches  across  the  river  from  the  quaint  little 
city  of  Chester.  I  had,already  been  carried  back  into  former 
days,  by  the  antiquities  of  that  venerable  place;  the  examina- 
tion of  which  is  equal  to  turning  over  the  pages  of  a  black-let- 


182  BRACEBBIDGE  HALL. 

ter  volume,  or  gazing  on  the  pictures  in  Froissart.  The  May- 
pole on  the  margin  of  that  poetic  stream  completed  the  illusion. 
My  fancy  adorned  it  with  wreaths  of  flowers,  and  peopled  the 
green  bank  with  all  the  dancing  revelry  of  May-day.  The 
mere  sight  of  this  May -pole  gave  a  glow  to  my  feelings,  and 
spread  a  charm  over  the  country  for  the  rest  of  the  day ;  and 
as  I  traversed  a  part  of  the  fair  plain  of  Cheshire,  and  the 
beautiful  borders  of  Wales,  and  looked  from  among  swelling 
hills  down  a  long  green  valley,  through  which  "the  Deva 
wound  its  wizard  stream,"  my  imagination  turned  all  into  a 
perfect  Arcadia. 

Whether  it  be  owing  to  such  poetical  associations  early  in- 
stilled into  my  mind,  or  whether  there  is,  as  it  were,  a  sym- 
pathetic revival  and  budding  forth  of  the  feelings  at  this  sea- 
son, certain  it  is,  that  I  always  experience,  wherever  I  may  be 
placed,  a  delightful  expansion  of  the  heart  at  the  return  of 
May.  It  is  said  that  birds  about  this  time  will  become  restless 
in  their  cages,  as  if  instinct  with  the  season,  conscious  of  the 
revelry  that  is  going  on  in  the  groves,  and  impatient  to  break 
from  their  bondage,  and  join  in  the  jubilee  of  the  year.  In 
like  manner  I  have  felt  myself  excited,  even  in  the  midst  of 
the  metropolis,  when  the  windows,  which  bad  been  churlishly 
closed  all  winter,  were  again  thrown  open  to  receive  the  balmy 
breath  of  May ;  when  the  sweets  of  the  country  were  breathed 
into  the  town,  and  flowers  were  cried  about  the  streets.  I  have 
considered  the  treasures  of  flowers  thus  poured  in,  as  so  many 
missives  from  nature,  inviting  us  forth  to  enjoy  the  virgin 
beauty  of  the  year,  before  its  freshness  is  exhaled  by  the  heats 
of  sunny  summer. 

One  can  readily  imagine  what  a  gay  scene  it  must  have  been 
in  jolly  old  London,  when  the  doors  were  decorated  with 
flowering  branches,  when  every  hat  was  decked  with  haw- 
thorn, and  Robin  Hood,  Friar  Tuck,  Maid  Marian,  the  morris- 
dancers,  and  all  the  other  fantastic  masks  and  revellers,  were 
performing  their  antics  about  the  May-pole  in  every  part  of 
the  city. 

I  am  not  a  bigoted  admirer  of  old  times  and  old  customs, 
merely  because  of  their  antiquity:  but  while  I  rejoice. in  the 
decline  of  many  of  the  rude  usages  and  coarse  amusements  of 
former  days,  I  cannot  but  regret  that  this  innocent  and  fanci- 
ful festival  has  fallen  into  disuse.  It^seemed  appropriate  to 
this  verdant  and  pastoral  country,  and  calculated  to  light  up 
the  too-pervading  gravity  of  the  nation.     I  value  every  cus,- 


VILLAGE    WQMTJUm  183 

torn  that  tends  to  infuse  poetical  feeling  into  the  common  peo- 
ple, and  to  sweeten  and  soften  the  rudeness  of  rustic  manners, 
without  destroying  their  simplicity.  Indeed,  it  is  to  the  decline 
of  this  happy  simplicity,  that  the  decline  of  this  custom  may 
be  traced;  and  the  rural  dance  on  the  green,  and  the  homely 
May-day  pageant,  have  gradually  disappeared,  in  proportion  as 
the"  peasantiy  have  ^become  expensive  and  artificial  in  then 
pleasures,  and  too  knowing  for  simple  enjoyment. 

Some  attempts,  the  Squire  informs  me,  have  been  made  of 
late  years,  by  men  of  both  taste  and  learning,  to  rally  back  tho 
popular  feeling  to  these  standards  of  primitive  simplicity ;  but 
the  time  has  gone  by,  the  feeling  has  become  chilled  by  habits 
of  gain  and  traffic,  the  country  apes  the  manners  and  amuse- 
ments of  the  town,  and  little  is  heard  of  May-day  at  present, 
except  from  the  lamentations  of  authors,  who  sigh  after  it  from 
among  the  brick  walls  of  the  city : 

H  For  O,  for  O,  the  Hobby-Horse  is  forgot." 


VILLAGE  WORTHIES. 

Nay,  I  tell  you,  I  am  so  well  beloved  in  our  town,  that  not  the  worst  dog  in  the 
reet  will  hurt  ray  little  finger.— Collier  of  Croydon. 


As  the  neighbouring  village  is  one  of  those  out-of-the-way, 
but  gossiping,  little  places  where  a  small  matter  makes  a  great 
stir,  it  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  the  approach  of  a  festival  like 
that  of  May-day  can  be  regarded  with  indifference,  especially 
since  it  is  made  a  matter  of  such  moment  by  the  great  folks  at 
the  Hall.  Master  Simon,  who  is  the  faithful  factotum  of  the 
worthy  Squire,  and  jumps  with  his  humour  in  every  thing,  is 
frequent  just  now  in  his  visits  to  the  village,  to  give  directions 
for  the  impending  fete ;  and  as  I  have  taken  the  liberty  occa- 
sionally of  accompanying  him,  I  have  been  enabled  to  get  some 
insight  into  the  characters  and  internal  politics  of  this  very 
sagacious  little  community. 

Master  Simon  is  in  fact  the  Coesar  of  the  village.  It  is  true 
the  Squire  is  the  protecting  power,  but  his  factotum  is  the 
active  and  busy  agent.  He  intermeddles  in  all  its  concerns,  is 
acquainted  with  all  the  inhabitants  and  their  domestic  history, 
gives  counsel  to  the  old  folks  in  their  business  matters,  and  the 


184  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

young  folks  in  their  love  affairs,  and  enjoys  the  proud  satis- 
faction of  being  a  great  man  in  a  little  world. 

He  is  the  dispenser,  too,  of  the  Squire's  charity,  winch  is 
bounteous ;  and,  to  do  Master  Simon  justice,  he  performs  this 
part  of  his  functions  with  great  alacrity.  Indeed,  I  have  been 
entertained  with  the  mixture  of  bustle,  importance,  and  kind- 
heartedness  which  he  displays.  He  is  of  too  vivacious  a  tern- 
perament  to  comfort  the  afflicted  by  sitting  down,  moping  and 
whining,  and  blowing  noses  in  concert;  but  goes  whisking 
about  like  a  sparrow,  chirping  consolation  into  every  hole  and 
corner  of  the  village.  I  have  seen  an  old  woman,  in  a  red  cloak, 
hold  him  for  half  an  hour  together  with  some  long  phthisical 
t; >le  of  distress,  which  Master  Simon  listened  to  with  many  a 
bob  of  the  head,  smack  of  his  dog- whip,  and  other  symptoms  of 
impatience,  though  he  afterwards  made  a  most  faithful  and 
circumstantial  report  of  the  case  to  the  Squire.  I  have  watched 
him,  too,  during  one  of  his  pop  visits  into  the  cottage  of  a 
superannuated  villager,  who  is  a  pensioner  of  the  Squire,  where 
he  fidgeted  about  the  room  without  sitting  down,  made  many 
excellent  off-hand  reflections  with  the  old  invalid,  who  was 
propped  up  in  his  chair,  about  the  shortness  of  life,  the  cer- 
tainty of  death,  and  the  necessity  of  preparing  for  "that  awful 
change ;"  quoted  several  texts  of  scripture  very  incorrectly,  but 
much  to  the  edification  of  the  cottager's  wife ;  and  on  coming 
out,  pinched  the  daughter's  rosy  cheek,  and  wondered  what 
was  in  the  young  men  that  such  a  pretty  face  did  not  get  a 
husband. 

He  has  also  his  cabinet  counsellors  in  the  village,  with  whom 
he  is  very  busy  just  now,  preparing  for  the  May-day  ceremonies. 
Among  these  is  the  village  tailor,  a  pale-faced  fellow,  that  plays 
the  clarionet  in  the  church  choir ;  and,  being  a  great  musical  * 
genius,  has  frequent  meetings  of  the  band  at  his  house,  where 
they  "make  night  hideous"  by  their  concerts.  He  is,  in  conse- 
quence, high  in  favour  with  Master  Simon ;  and,  through  his 
influence,  has  the  making,  or  rather  marring,  of  all  the  liveries 
of  the  Hall ;  which  generally  look  as  though  they  had  been  cut 
out  by  one  of  those  scientific  tailors  of  the  Flying  Island  of 
Laputa,  who  took  measure  of  their  customers  with  a  quadrant. 
The  tailor,  in  fact,  might  rise  to  be  one  of  the  moneyed  men  of 
the  village,  were  he  not  rather  too  prone  to  gossip,  and  keep 
holidays,  and  give  concerts,  and  blow  all  his  substance,  real 
and  personal,  through  his  clarionet ;  which  literally  keeps  him 
poor,  both  in  body  and  estate.    He  has  for  the  present  thrown 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER.  185 

by  all  his  regular  work,  and  suffered  the  breeches  of  the  village 

to  go  unmade  and  unmended,  while  he  is  occupied  in  making 

garlands  of  party-coloured  rags,  in  imitation  of  flowers,  for  the 

decoration  of  the  May-pole. 
Another  of  Master  Simon's  counsellors  is  the  apothecary,  a 

short  and  rather  fat  man,  with  a  pair  of  prominent  eyes,  thai 

diverge  like  those  of  a  lobster.     He  is  the  village  wise  man ; 

very  sententious,  and  full  of  profound  remarks  on  shallow 
t  subjects.     Master  Simon  often  quotes  his  sayings,  and  mentions 

him  as  rather  an  extraordinary  man ;  and  even  consults  him 
I  occasionally,  in  desperate  cases  of  the  dogs  and  horses.     Indeed, 

he  seems  to  have  been  overwhelmed  by  the  apothecary's  philo- 
£  sophy,  which  is  exactly  one  observation  deep,   consisting  of 

indisputable  maxims,  such  as  may  be  gathered  from  the  mottoes 
■  of  tobacco-boxes.  I  had  a  specimen  of  his  philosophy,  in  my 
E  very  first  conversation  with  him ;  in  the  course  of  which  he 
■observed,  with  great  solemnity  and  emphasis,  that  ' '  man  is  a 
m compound  of  wisdom  and  folly;"  upon  which  Master  Simon, 
Jwho  had  hold  of  my  arm,  pressed  very  hard  upon  it,  and 

whispered  in  my  ear   "  That's  a  devilish  shrewd  remark  1" 


; 


THE  SCHOOLMASTER. 

There  will  be  no  mosse  stick  to  the  stone  of  Sisiphus,  no  grasse  hang  on  the  heeles 
of  Mercury,  no  butter  cleave  on  the  bread  of  a  traveller.  For  as  the  eagle  at  every 
flight  lnseth  a  feather,  which  maketh  her  bauld  in  her  age,  so  the  traveller  in  every 
country  loseth  sniue  fleece,  which  maketh  him  a  beggar  in  his  youth,  by  buying 
thar  for  a  pound  which  he  cannot  sell  again  for  a  penny— repentance.— Lilly's 
Euph  ues. 

Among  the  worthies  of  the  village  that  enjoy  the  peculiar 
confidence  of  Master  Simon,  is  one  who  has  struck  my  fancy 
bo  much  that  I  have  thought  him  worthy  of  a  separate  notice. 
It  is  Slingsby,  the  schoolmaster,  a  thin,  elderly  man,  rather 
threadbare  and  slovenly,  somewhat  indolent  in  manner,  and 
with  an  easy,  good-humoured  look,  not  often  met  with  in  his 
craft.  I  have  been  interested  in  his  favour  by  a  few  anecdotes 
which  I  have  picked  up  concerning  him. 

He  is  a  native  of  the  village,  and  was  a  contemporary  and 
playmate  of  Ready-Money  Jack  in  the  days  of  their  boyhood. 
Indeed,  they  carried  on  a  kind  of  league  of  mutual  good 
offices.     Slingsby  was  rather  puny,  and  withal  somewhat  of  a 


186  BHACKinillXiH  HALL. 

coward,  but  very  apt  at  his  learning ;  Jack,  on  the  contrary, 
was  a  bully-boy  out  of  doors,  but  a  sad  laggard  at  his  books. 
Slingsby  helped  Jack,  therefore,  to  all  his  lessons;  Jack  fought 
all  Slingsby 's  battles;  and  they  were  inseparable  friends.  This 
mutual  kindness  continued  even  after  they  left  the  school, 
notwithstanding  the  dissimilarity  of  their  characters.  Jack 
took  to  ploughing  and  reaping,  and  prepared  himself  to  till  his 
paternal  acres ;  while  the  other  loitered  negligently  on  in  the 
path  of  learning,  until  he  penetrated  even  into  the  confines  of 
Latin  and  mathematiea. 

In  an  unlucky  hour,  however,  he  took  to  reading  voyages 
and  travels,  and  was  smitten  with  a  desire  to  see  the  world. 
This  desire  increased  upon  him  as  he  grew  up;  so,  early  one 
bright,  sunny  morning,  he  put  all  his  effects  in  a  knapsack, 
slung  it  on  his  back,  took  staff  in  hand,  and  called  in  his  way  to 
take  leave  of  his  early  schoolmate.  Jack  was  just  going  out 
with  the  plough :  the  friends  shook  hands  over  the  farm-house 
gate;  Jack  drove  his  team  a-field,  and  Slingsby  whistled, 
"  Over  the  hills  and  far  away,"  and  sallied  forth  gayly  to  "'seek 
his  fortune." 

Years  and  years  passed  by,  and  young  Tom  Slingsby  was 
forgotten ;  when,  one  mellow  Sunday  afternoon  in  autumn,  a 
thin  man.  somewhat  advanced  in  life,  with  a  coat  out  at  elbows, 
a  pair  of  old  nankeen  gaiters,  and  a  few  things  tied  in  a  hand- 
kerchief and  slung  on  the  end  of  a  stick,  was  seen  loitering 
through  the  village.  He  appeared  to  regard  several  houses 
attentively,  to  peer  into  the  windows  that  were  open,  to  eye 
the  villagers  wistfully  as  they  returned  from  church,  and  then 
to  pass  some  time  in  the  church-yard  reading  the  tombstones. 

At  length  he  found  his  way  to  the  farm-house  of  Ready- 
Money  Jack,  but  paused  ere  he  attempted  the  wicket ;  contem- 
plating the  picture  of  substantial  independence  before  him.  In 
the  porch  of  the  house  sat  Ready-Money  Jack,  in  his  Sunday 
dress ;  with  his  hat  upon  his  head,  his  pipe  in  his  mouth,  and 
his  tankard  before  him,  the  monarch  of  all  he  surveyed. 
Beside  him  lay  his  fat  house-dog.  The  varied  sounds  of  poul- 
try were  heard  from  the  well-stocked  farm-yard;  the  bees 
hummed  from  their  hives  in  the  garden ;  the  cattled  lowed  in 
the  rich  meadow ;  while  the  crammed  barns  and  ample  stacks 
bore  proof  of  an  abundant  harvest. 

The  stranger  opened  the  gate  and  advanced  dubiously  toward 
the  house.  The  mastiff  growled  at  the  sight  of  the  suspicious- 
looking  intruder ;  but  was  immediately  silenced  by  his  master, 


TlLi:  S0HQQLMA$T&8.  187 

who,  taking  his  pipe  from  his  mouth,  awaited  with  inquiring 
aspect  the  address  of  this  equivocal  personage.  The  stranger 
eyed  old  Jack  for  a  moment,  so  portly  in  his  dimensions,  and 
decked  out  in  gorgeous  apparel;  then  cast  a  glance  upon  his 
own  thread-bare  and  starveling  condition,  and  the  scanty 
bundle  which  he  held  in  his  hand;  then  giving  his  shrunk 
waistcoat  a  twitch  to  make  it  meet  its  receding  waistband, 
and  casting  another  look,  half  sad,  half  humorous,  at  the  sturdy 
yeoman,  "  I  suppose,"  said  he,  "Mr.  Tibbets,  you  have  forgot 
old  times  and  old  playmates." 

The  latter  gazed  at  him  with  scrutinizing  look,  but  acknowl- 
edged that  he  had  no  recollection  of  Mm. 

"Like  enough,  like  enough,"  said  the  stranger,  "every  body 
seems  to  have  forgotten  poor  Slingsby !" 

"  Why,  no,  sure!  it  can't  be  Tom  Slingsby?" 

"Yes,  but  it  is,  though!"  replied  the  stranger,  shaking  his 
head. 

Ready-Money  Jack  was  on  his  feet  in  a  twinkling,  thrust  out 
his  hand,  gave  his  ancient  crony  the  gripe  of  a  giant,  and 
slapping  the  other  hand  on  a  bench,  ' '  Sit  down  there, '■"  cried  he, 
"  Tom  Slingsby !" 

A  long  conversation  ensued  about  old  times,  while  Slingsby 
was  regaled  with  the  best  cheer  that  the  farm-house  afforded ; 
for  he  was  hungry  as  well  as  wayworn,  and  had  the  keen 
appetite  of  a  poor  pedestrian.  The  early  playmates  then 
talked  over  their  subsequent  lives  and  adventures.  Jack 
had  but  little  to  relate,  and  was  never  good  at  a  long  story. 
A  prosperous  life,  passed  at  home,  has  little  incident  for  narra- 
tive ;  it  is  only  poor  devils,  that  are  tossed  about  the  world, 
that  are  the  true  heroes  of  story.  Jack  had  stuck  by  the 
paternal  farm,  followed  the  same  plough  that  his  forefathers 
had  driven,  and  had  waxed  richer  and  richer  as  he  grew  older. 
As  to  Tom  Slingsby,  he  was  an  exemplification  of  the  old 
proverb,  "a  rolling  stone  gathers  no  moss."  He  had  Bought 
his  fortune  about  the  world,  without  ever  finding  it,  being  a 
thing  oftener  found  at  home  than  abroad.  He  had  been  in  all 
kinds  of  situations,  and  had  learned  a  dozen  different  modes 
of  making  a  living;  but  had  found  his  way  back  to  his  native 
village  rather  poorer  than  when  he  left  it,  his  knapsack  having 
dwindled  down  to  a  scanty  bundle. 

As  luck  would  have  it,  the  Squire  vat»  passing  by  the  farm 
house  that  very  evening,   and  called  there,   as  is  often  his 
custom.     He  found  the  two  schoolmates  still  gossiping  in  the 


188  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

porch,  and  according  to  the  good  old  Scottish  song,  "  taking  a 
cup  of  kindness  yet,  for  auld  lang  syne."  The  Squire  was 
struck  by  the  contrast  in  appearance  and  fortunes  of  these 
early  playmates.  Ready-Money  Jack,  seated  in  lordly  state, 
surrounded  by  the  good  things  of  this  life,  with  golden  guineas 
hanging  to  his  very  watch-chain,  and  the  poor  pilgrim 
Slingsby,  thin  as  a  weasel,  with  all  his  worldly  effects,  his 
bundle,  hat,  and  walking- staff,  lying  on  the  ground  beside 
him. 

The  good  Squire's  heart  warmed  towards  the  luckless  cosmo- 
polite, for  he  is  a  little  prone  to  like  such  half -vagrant  charac- 
ters. He  cast  about  in  his  mind  how  he  should  contrive  once 
more  to  anchor  Slingsby  in  his  native  village.  Honest  Jack 
had  already  offered  him  a  present  shelter  under  his  roof, 
in  spite  of  the  hints,  and  winks,  and  half  remonstrances 
of  the  shrewd  Dame  Tibbets;  but  how  to  provide  for  his 
permanent  maintenance,  was  the  question.  Luckily  the  Squire 
bethought  himself  that  the  village  school  was  without  a 
teacher.  A  little  further  conversation  convinced  him  that 
Slingsby  was  as  fit  for  that  as  for  any  thing  else,  and  in  a  day 
or  two  he  was  seen  swaying  the  rod  of  empire  in  the  very 
school-house  where  he  had  often  been  horsed  in  the  days  of  his 
boyhood. 

Here  he  has  remained  for  several  years,  and,  being  honoured 
by  the  countenance  of  the  Squire,  and  the  fast  friendship  of 
Mr.  Tibbets,  he  has  grown  into  much  importance  and  conside- 
ration in  the  village.  I  am  told,  however,  that  he  still  shows, 
now  and  then,  a  degree  of  restlessness,  and  a  disposition  to 
rove  abroad  again,  and  see  a  little  more  of  the  world;  an  incli- 
nation which  seems  particularly  to  haunt  him  about  spring- 
time. There  is  nothing  so  difficult  to  conquer  as  the  vagrant 
humour,  when  once  it  has  been  fully  indulged. 

Since  I  have  heard  these  anecdotes  of  poor  Slingsby,  I  have 
more  than  once  mused  upon  the  picture  presented  by  him  and 
his  schoolmate,  Ready-Money  Jack,  on  their  coming  together 
again  after  so  long  a  separation.  It  is  difficult  to  determine 
between  lots  in  life,  where  each  one  is  attended  with  its  peculiar 
discontents.  He  who  never  leaves  his  home  repines  at  his 
monotonous  existence,  and  envies  the  traveller,  whose  life  is  a 
constant  tissue  of  wonder  and  adventure;  while  he  who  is 
tossed  about  the  world,  looks  back  with  many  a  sigh  to  the 
safe  and  quiet  shore  winch  he  has  abandoned.  I  cannot  help 
thinking,  however,  that  the  man  that  stays  at  home,  and  cul- 


THE  SCHOOL.  189 

tivates  the  comforts  and  pleasures  daily  springing  up  around 
him,  stands  the  best  chance  for  happiness.  There  is  nothing  so 
fascinating  to  a  young  mind  as  the  idea  of  travelling ;  and  there 
is  very  witchcraft  in  the  old  phrase  found  in  every  nursery 
tale,  of  "going  to  seek  one's  fortune."  A  continual  change  of 
place,  and  change  of  object,  promises  a  continual  succession  of 
adventure  and  gratification  of  curiosity.  But  there  is  a  1  in ii; 
lo  all  our  enjoyments,  and  every  desire  bears  its  death  in  its  ver  j 
gratification.  Curiosity  languishes  under  repeated  stimulants, 
novelties  cease  to  excite  surprise,  until  at  length  we  cannot 
wonder  even  at  a  miracle. 

He  who  has  sallied  forth  into  the  world,  like  poor  Slingsby, 
full  of  sunny  anticipations,  finds  too  soon  how  different  the  dis- 
tant scene  becomes  when  visited.  The  smooth  place  roughens 
as  he  approaches ;  the  wild  place  becomes  tame  and  barren ;  the 
fairy  tints  that  beguiled  him  on,  still  fly  to  the  distant  hill,  or 
gather  upon  the  land  he  has  left  behind ;  and  every  part  of  the 
landscape  seems  greener  than  the  spot  he  stands  on. 


THE  SCHOOL. 


But  to  come  down  from  groat  men  and  higher  matters  to  m}'  little  children  and 
poor  school-house  again:  I  will,  God  willing,  go  forward  orderly,  as  I  purposed,  to 
Instruct  children  and  young  men  both  for  learning  and  manners. —Roger  Ascham. 

Having  given  the  reader  a  slight  sketch  of  the  village  school- 
master, he  may  be  curious  to  learn  something  concerning  his 
school.  As  the  Squire  takes  much  interest  in  the  education  of 
the  neighbouring  children,  he  put  into  the  hands  of  the  teacher 
on  first  installing  him  in  office,  a  copy  of  Eoger  Ascham*,- 
School  master,  and  advised  him,  moreover,  to  con  over  thai 
portion  of  old  Peacham  which  treats  of  the  duty  of  masters, 
and  which  condemns  the  favourite  method  of  making  boys  \s ise 
by  flagellation. 

He  exhorted  Slingsby  not  to  break  down  or  depress  the  free 
spirit  of  the  boys,  by  harshness  and  slavish  fear,  but  to  lead 
them  freely  and  joyously  on  in  the  path  of  knowledge,  making 
it  pleasant  and  desirable  in  their  eyes.  He  wished  to  see  the 
youth  trained  up  in  the  manners  and  habitudes  of  the  peasantry 
of  the  good  old  times,  and  thus  to  lay  a  foundation  for  the 
accomplishment  of  his  fav<  >ri  .  the  revival  of  old  English 


190  BRACEBMDGE  HALL, 

customs  and  character.  He  recommended  that  all  the  ancient 
holidays  should  be  observed,  and  that  the  sports  of  the  boys,  in 
their  hours  of  play,  should  be  regulated  according  to  the 
standard  authorities  laid  down  in  Strutt,  a  copy  of  whose 
invaluable  work,  decorated  with  plates,  was  deposited  in  the 
school-house.  Above  all,  he  exhorted  the  pedagogue  to  abstain 
from  the  use  of  birch,  an  instrument  of  instruction  which  the 
good  Squire  regards  with  abhorrence,  as  fit  only  for  the  coercion 
ol  Orute  natures  that  caimot  be  reasoned  with. 

Mr.  Slingsby  has  followed  the  Squire's  instructions,  to  the 
beat  of  his  disposition  and  abilities.  He  never  flogs  the  boys, 
because  he  is  too  easy,  good-humoured  a  creature  to  inflict  pain 
on  &  worm.  He  is  bountiful  in  holidays,  because  he  loves  holi- 
days himself,  and  has  a  sympathy  with  the  urchins'  impatience  of 
confinement,  from  having  divers  times  experienced  its  irksome- 
ness  during  the  time  that  he  was  seeing  the  world.  As  to 
sports  and  pastimes,  the  boys  are  faithfully  exercised  in  all  that 
are  on  record,  quoits,  races,  prison-bars,  tfpcat,  trap-ball,  bandy- 
ball,  wrestling,  leaping,  and  what  not.  The  only  misfortune 
is,  that  having  banished  the  birch,  honest  Slingsby  has  not 
studied  Roger  Ascham  sufficiently  to  find  out  a  substitute ;  or 
rather,  he  has  not  the  management  in  his  nature  to  apply  one ; 
his  school,  therefore,  though  one  of  the  happiest,  is  one  of  the 
most  unruly  in  the  country ;  and  never  was  a  pedagogue  more 
liked,  or  less  heeded  by  his  disciples,  than  Slingsby. 

He  has  lately  taken  a  coadjutor  worthy  of  himself,  being 
another  stray  sheep  that  has  returned  to  the  village  fold. 
This  is  no  other  than  the  son  of  the  musical  tailor,  who  had 
bestowed  some  cost  upon  his  education,  hoping  to  see  him  one 
day  arrive  at  the  dignity  of  an  exciseman,  or  at  least  of  a  parish 
clerk.  The  lad  grew  up,  however,  as  idle  and  musical  as  his 
father ;  and,  being  captivated  by  the  drum  and  fife  of  a  recruit- 
ing party,  he  followed  them  off  to  the  army.  He  returned 
not  long  since,  out  of  money,  and  out  at  the  elbows,  the 
prodigal  son  of  the  village.  He  remained  for  some  time  loung- 
ing about  the  place  in  half-tattered  soldier's  dress,  with  a 
foraging-cap  on  one  side  of  his  head,  jerking  stones  across  the 
brook,  or  loitering  about  the  tavern-door,  a  burthen  to  his 
father,  and  regarded  with  great  coldness  by  all  warm  house- 
holders. 

Something,  however,  drew  honest  Slingsby  towards  the 
youth.  It  might  be  the  kindness  he  bore  to  his  father,  who  is 
one  of  the  schoolmaster's  great  cronies ;  it  might  be  that  secret 


ttfE  SCHOOL.  19! 

sympathy  which  draws  men  of  vagrant  propensities  towards 
each  other;  for  there  is  something  truly  magnetic  in  the 
vagabond  feeling;  or  it  might  be,  that  he  remembered  the  time 
when  he  himself  had  come  back,  like  this  youngster,  a  wreck 
to  his  native  place.  At  any  rate,  whatever  the  motive,  Slingsby 
drew  towards  the  youth.  They  had  many  conversations  in  the 
village  tap-room  about  foreign  parts  and  the  various  scenes  and 
places  they  had  witnessed  during  their  wayfaring  about  the 
world.  The  more  Slingsby  talked  with  him,  the  more  he  found 
him  to  his  taste ;  and  rinding  him  almost  as  learned  as  himself, 
he  forthwith  engaged  him  as  an  assistant,  or  usher,  in  the 
school.  Under  such  admirable  tuition,  the  school,  as  may  be 
supposed,  flourishes  apace ;  and  if  the  scholars  do  not  become 
versed  in  all  the  holiday  accomplishments  of  the  good  old  times, 
to  the  Squire's  heart's  content,  it  will  not  be  the  fault  of  their 
teachers.  The  prodigal  son  has  become  almost  as  popular 
among  the  boys  as  the  pedagogue  himself.  His  instructions  are 
not  limited  to  school  hours ;  and  having  inherited  the  musical 
taste  and  talents  of  his  father,  he  has  bitten  the  whole  school 
with  the  mania.  He  is  a  great  hand  at  beating  a  drum,  which 
is  often  heard  rumbling  from  the  rear  of  the  school-house.  He 
is  teaching  half  the  boys  of  the  village,  also,  to  play  the  fife, 
and  the  pandean  pipes ;  and  they  weary  the  whole  neighbour- 
hood with  their  vague  pipings,  as  they  sit  perched  on  stiles,  or 
loitering  about  the  barn-doors  in  the  evenings.  Among  the 
other  exercises  of  the  school,  also,  he  has  introduced  the  ancient 
art  of  archery,  one  of  the  Squire's  favourite  themes,  with  such 
success,  that  the  whipsters  roam  in  truant  bands  about  the 
neighbourhood,  practising  with  their  bows  and  arrows  upon  the 
birds  of  the  air,  and  the  beasts  of  the  field ;  and  not  unf  requentl}* 
making  a  foray  into  the  Squire's  domains,  to  the  great  indigna 
tion  of  the  gamekeepers.  In  a  word,  so  completely  are  the 
ancient  English  customs  and  habits  cultivated  at  this  school, 
that  I  should  not  be  surprised  if  the  Squire  should  live  to  see 
one  of  his  poetic  visions  realized,  and  a  brood  reared  up, 
worthy  successors  to  Robin  Hood  and  his  merry  gang  of  out 
laws. 


192  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 


A  VILLAGE  POLITICIAN. 

I  am  a  ~ogue  if  I  do  not  think  I  was  designed  for  the  helm  of  state;  I  am  so  full  of 
nimble  stratagems,  that  I  should  have  ordered  affairs,  and  carried  it  against  the 
stream  of  a  faction,  with  as  much  ease  as  a  skipper  would  laver  against  the  wind 

— The  Goblins. 

In  one  of  my  visits  to  the  village  with  Master  Simon,  he  pro 
posed  that  we  should  stop  at  the  inn,  which  he  wished  to  sho^v 
me,  as  a  specimen  of  a  real  country  inn,  the  head-quarters  oi 
tillage  gossips.  I  had  remarked  it  before,  in  my  perambu- 
lations about  the  place.  It  has  a  deep,  old-fashioned  porch, 
leading  into  a  large  hall,  which  serves  for  tap-room  and  travel- 
lers-room; having  a  wide  fire-place,  with  high-backed  settles  on 
each  side,  where  the  wise  men  of  the  village  gossip  over  their 
ale,  and  hold  their  sessions  during  the  long  winter  evenings. 
The  landlord  is  an  easy,  indolent  fellow,  shaped  a  little  like  one 
of  his  own  beer-barrels,  and  is  apt  to  stand  gossiping  at  his 
door,  with  his  wig  on  one  side,  and  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
whilst  his  wife  and  daughter  attend  to  customers.  His  wife, 
however,  is  fully  competent  to  manage  the  establishment ;  and, 
indeed,  from  long  habitude,  rules  over  all  the  frequenters  of 
the  tap-room  as  completely  as  if  they  were  her  dependants  in- 
stead of  her  patrons.  Not  a  veteran  ale-bibber  but  pays  homage 
to  her,  having,  no  doubt,  been  often  in  her  arrears.  I  have 
already  hinted  that  she  is  on  very  good  terms  with  Ready- 
Money  Jack.  He  was  a  sweetheart  of  hers  in  early  life,  and 
has  always  countenanced  the  tavern  on  her  account.  Indeed, 
he  is  quite  the  "cock  of  the > walk"  at  the  tap-room. 

As  we  approached  the  inn,  we  heard  some  one  talking  with 
great  volubility,  and  distinguished  the  ominous  words,  "taxes," 
"poor's  rates,"  and  "agricultural  distress."  It  proved  to  be  a 
thin,  loquacious  fellow,  who  had  penned  the  landlord  up  in  one 
corner  of  the  porch,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  as  usual, 
listening  with  an  air  of  the  most  vacant  acquiescence. 

The  sight  seemed  to  have  a  curious  effect  on  Master  Simon,  as 
he  squeezed  my  arm,  and,  altering  his  course,  sheered  wide  of 
the  porch,  as  though  he  had  not  had  any  idea  of  entering.  This 
evident  evasion  induced  me  to  notice  the  orator  more  particu- 
larly. He  was  meagre,  but  active  in  his  make,  with  a  long, 
pale,  bilious  face ;  a  black  beard,  so  ill-shaven  as  to  bloody  his 
shirt-collar,  a  feverish  eye,  and  a  hat  sharpened  up  at  the  sides, 
into  a  most  pragmatical  shape.     He  had  a  newspaper  in  his 


A    VILLAGE  POLITICIAN.  193 

hand,  and  seemed  to  be  commenting  on  its  contents,  to  the 
thorough  conviction  of  mine  host. 

At  sight  of  Master  Simon,  the  landlord  was  evidently  a  little 
flurried,  and  began  to  rub  his  hands,  edge  away  from  his  cor- 
ner, and  make  several  profound  publican  bows;  while  the 
orator  took  no  other  notice  of  my  companion  than  to  talk 
rather  louder  than  before,  and  with,  as  I  thought,  something  of 
an  air  of  defiance.  Master  Simon,  however,  as  I  have  before 
said,  sheered  off  from  the  porch,  and  passed  on,  pressing  my 
arm  within  Iris,  and  whispering,  as  we  got  by,  in  a  tone  of  awe 
and  horror,  "  That's  a  radical!  he  reads  Cobbett !" 

I  endeavoured  to  get  a  more  particular  account  of  him  from 
my  companion,  but  he  seemed  unwilling  even  to  talk  about 
him,  answering  only  in  general  terms,  that  he  was  ' '  a  cursed 
bus}'  fellow,  that  had  a  confounded  trick  of  talking,  and  was 
apt  to  bother  one  about  the  national  debt,  and  such  nonsense;" 
from  which  I  suspected  that  Master  Simon  had  been  rendered 
wary  of  him  by  some  accidental  encounter  on  the  field  of  argu- 
ment; for  these  radicals  are  continually  roving  about  in  quest 
of  wordy  warfare,  and  never  so  happy  as  when  they  can  tilt  a 
gentleman  logician  out  of  his  saddle. 

On  subsequent  inquiry,  my  suspicions  have  been  confirmed. 
I  find  the  radical  has  but  recently  found  his  way  into  the  village, 
where  he  threatens  to  commit  fearful  devastations  with  his 
doctrines.  He  has  already  made  two  or  three  complete  con- 
verts, or  new  lights ;  has  shaken  the  faith  of  several  others ; 

id  has  grievously  puzzled  the  brains  of  many  of  the  oldest 
villagers,  who  had  never  thought  about  politics,  or  scarce  any 
thing  else,  during  their  whole  lives. 

He  is  lean  and  meagre  from  the  constant  restlessness  of  mind 

Ld  body ;  worrying  about  with  newspapers  and  pamphlets  in 
tis  pockets,  which  he  is  ready  to  pull  out  on  all  occasions.  He 
has  shocked  several  of  the  staunchest  villagers,  by  talking 
ightly  of  the  Squire  and  his  family ;  and  hinting  that  it  would 
better  the  park  should  be  cut  into  small  farms  and  kitchen- 
gardens,  or  feed  good  mutton  instead  of  worthless  deer. 

He  is  a  great  thorn  in  the  side  of  the  Squire,  who  is  sadly 
afraid  that  he  will  introduce  politics  into  the  village,  and  turn 
it  into  an  unhappy,  thinking  community.  He  is  a  still  greater 
crk'vance  to  Master  Simon,  who  has  hitherto  been  able  to  sway 
the  political  opinions  of  the  place,  without  much  cost  of  learn- 
ing or  logic ;  but  has  been  much  puzzled  of  late  to  weed  out  the 
loubts  and  heresies  already  sown  by  this  champion  of  reform. 


194  BRACEBIUDGE  HALL. 

Indeed,  the  latter  has  taKen  complete  command  at  the  tap-room 
of  the  tavern,  not  so  much  hecause  he  has  convinced,  as  be- 
cause he  has  out-talked  all  the  old-established  oracles.  The 
apothecary,  with  all  his  philosophy,  was  as  nought  before  him. 
He  has  convinced  and  converted  the  landlord  at  least  a  dozen 
times ;  who,  however,  is  liable  to  be  convinced  and  converted 
the  other  way,  by  the  next  person  with  whom  he  talks.  It  is 
true  the  radical  has  a  violent  antagonist  in  the  landlady,  who  is 
vehemently  loyal,  and  thoroughly  devoted  to  the  king,  Master 
Simon,  and  the  Squire.  She  now  and  then  comes  out  upon  the 
reformer  with  all  the  fierceness  of  a  cat-o'-mountain,  and  does 
not  spare  her  own  soft-headed  husband,  for  listening  to  what 
she  terms  such  "low-lived  politics."  What  makes  the  good 
woman  the  more  violent,  is  the  perfect  coolness  with  which  the 
radical  listens  to  her  attacks,  drawing  his  face  up  into  a  pro- 
voking supercilious  smile ;  and  when  she  has  talked  herself  out 
of  breath,  quietly  asking  her  for  a  taste  of  her  home-brewed. 

The  only  person  that  is  in  any  way  a  match  for  this  redoubt- 
able politician,  is  Ready-Money  Jack  Tibbets,  who  maintains 
his  stand  in  the  tap-room,  in  defiance  of  the  radical  and  all  his 
works.  Jack  is  one  of  the  most  loyal  men  in  the  country, 
without  being  able  to  reason  about  the  matter.  He  has  that 
admirable  quality  for  a  tough  arguer,  also,  that  he  never  knows 
when  he  is  beat.  He  has  half-a-dozen  old  maxims  which  he  ad- 
vances on  all  occasions,  and  though  his  antagonist  may  overturn 
them  never  so  often,  yet  he  always  brings  them  anew  to  the 
field.  He  is  like  the  robber  in  Ariosto,  who,  though  his  head 
might  be  cut  off  half-a-hundred  tunes,  yet  whipped  it  on 
shoulders  again  in  a  twinkling,  and  returned  as  sound  a  man 
as  ever  to  the  charge. 

Whatever  does  not  square  with  Jack's  simple  aria4  obvious 
creed,  he  sets  down  for  "French  politics;"  for,  notwithstand- 
ing the  peace,  he  cannot  be  persuaded  that  the  French  are  not 
still  laying  plots  to  ruin  the  nation,  and  to  get  hold  of  the  Bank 
of  England.  The  radical  attempted  to  overwhelm  him,  one 
day.  by  a  long  passage  from  a  newspaper ;  but  Jack  neither 
reads  nor  believes  in  newspapers.  In  reply,  he  gave  him  one 
of  the  stanzas  which  he  has  by  heart  from  his  favourite,  and 
indeed  only  author,  old  Tusser,  and  which  he  calls  his  Golden 
Rules: 

Leave  princes'  affairs  undescanted  on, 
And  tend  to  such  doings  as  stand  thee  upon; 
Fear  God,  and  offend  not  the  king  nor  his  laws, 
And  keep  thyself  out  of  the  magistrate's  claws. 


TUB  ROOKERY.  195 

When  Tibbets  had  pronounced  this  with  great  emphasis,  he 
pulled  out  a  well-filled  leathern  purse,  took  out  a  handful  of 
gold  and  silver,  paid  his  score  at  the  bar  with  great  punctual- 
ity, returned  his  money,  piece  by  piece,  into  his  purse,  his 
purse  into  his  pocket,  which  he  buttoned  up ;  and  then,  giving 
his  cudgel  a  stout  thump  upon  the  floor,  and  bidding  the  radi- 
cal " good-morning,  sir!"  with  the  tone  of  a  man  who  con- 
ceives lie  has  completely  done  for  his  antagonist,  he  walked 
with  lion-like  gravity  out  of  the  house.  Two  or  three  of  Jack's 
admirers  who  were  present,  and  had  been  afraid  to  take  the 
field  themselves,  looked  upon  this  as  a  perfect  triumph,  and 
winked  at  each  other  when  the  radical's  back  was  turned. 
"Ay,  ay'/'  said  mine  host,  as  soon  as  the  radical  was  out  of 
hearing,  "let  old  Jack  alone;  I'll  warrant  he'll  give  him  his 
own!" 


THE  ROOKERY. 


But  cawing  rooks,  and  kites  that  swim  sublime 

In  still  repeated  circles,  screaming  loud; 

The  ja}-,  the  pie,  and  e"en  the  boding  owl. 

That  hails  the  rising  moon,  have  charms  for  me.— Cowper. 

In  a  grove  of  tall  oaks  and  beeches,  that  crowns  a  terrace- 
walk,  just  on  the  skirts  of  the  garden,  is  an  ancient  rookery, 
which  is  one  of  the  most  important  provinces  in  the  Squire's 
rural  domains.  The  old  gentleman  sets  great  store  by  his 
rooks,  and  will  not  suffer  one  of  them  to  be  killed:  in  con- 
sequence of  which,  they  have  increased  amazingly;  the  tree- 
tops  are  loaded  with  their  nests ;  they  have  encroached  upon 
the  great  avenue,  and  have  even  established,  in  times  long 
past,  a  colony  among  the  elms  and  pines  of  the  church-yard, 
which,  like  other  distant  colonies,  has  already  thrown  off 
allegiance  to  the  mother  country. 

The  rooks  are  looked  up  by  the  Squire  as  a  very  ancient  and 
honourable  line  of  gentry,  highly  aristocratical  in  their  notions, 
fond  of  place,  and  attached  to  church  and  state ;  as  their  build- 
ing so  loftily,  keeping  about  churches  and  cathedrals,  and  in 
the  venerable  groves  of  old  castles  and  manor-houses,  suffi- 
ciently manifests.  The  good  opinion  thus  expressed  by  the 
Squire  put  me  upon  observing  more  narrowly  these  very  re- 
spectable  birds,  for  I  confess,  to  my  shame,  I  had  been  apt  to 


196  BRACBBBIDQE  HALL. 

confound  them  with  their  cousins-german  the  crows,  to  whom, 
at  the  first  glance,  they  bear  so  great  a  family  resemblance. 
Nothing,  it  seems,  could  be  more  unjust  or  injurious  than  such 
a  mistake.  The  rooks  and  crows  are,  among  the  feathered 
tribes,  what  the  .Spaniards  and  Portuguese  are  among  nations, 
the  least  loving,  in  consequence  of  their  neighbourhood  and 
similarity.  The  rooks  are  old  established  housekeepers,  high- 
minded  gentlefolk,  that  have  had  their  hereditary  abodes  time 
out  of  mind ;  but  as  to  the  poor  crows,  they  are  a  kind  of  vaga- 
bond, predatory,  gipsy  race,  roving  about  the  country  without 
any  settled  home;  "their  hands  are  against  every  body,  anc 
every  body's  against  them;"  and  they  are  gibbeted  in  ever} 
corn-field.  Master  Simon  assures  me  that  a  female  rook,  that 
should  bo  far  forget  herself  as  to  consort  with  a  crow,  wouk 
inevitably  be  disinherited,  and  indeed  would  be  totally  dis- 
carded by  all  her  genteel  acquaintance. 

The  Squire  is  very  watchful  over  the  interests  and  concerns 
of  his  sable  neighbours.     As  to  Master  Simon,  he  even  pretem 
to  know  many  of  them  by  sight,  and  to  have  given  names 
them ;  he  points  out  several,  which  he  says  are  old  heads  of 
families,  and  compares  them  to  worthy  old  citizens,  before 
hand  in  the  world,  that  wear  cocked  hats,  and  silver  buckle 
in  their  shoes.     Notwithstanding  the  protecting  benevolence  of 
the  Squire,  and  their  being  residents  in  his  empire,  they  seei 
to  acknowledge  no  allegiance,  and  to  hold  no  intercourse  oi 
intimacy.     Their  airy  tenements  are  built  almost  out  of  the 
reach  of  gun-shot ;  and,  notwithstanding  their  vicinity  to  the 
Hall,  they  maintain  a  most  reserved  and  distrustful  shyness  of 
mankind. 

There  is  one  season  of  the  year,  however,  which  brings 
birds  in  a  manner  to  a  level,  and  tames  the  pride  of  the  loftiest 
high-flyer — which  is  the  season  of  building  their  nests.     Thi 
takes  place  early  in  the  spring,  when  the  forest  trees  first  begii 
to  show  their  buds ;  the  long,  withy  ends  of  the  branches 
turn  green;  when  the  wild  strawberry,  and  other  herbage  of 
the  sheltered  woodlands,  put  forth  their  tender  and  tintee 
leaves ;  and  the  daisy  and  the  primrose  peep  from  under  the 
hedges.     At  this  time  there  is  a  general  bustle  among  the  featl 
ered  tribes ;  an  incessant  fluttering  about,  and  a  cheerful  chii 
ing;  indicative,  like  the  germination  of  the  vegetable  work 
of  the  reviving  life  and  fecundity  of  the  year. 

It  is  then  that  the  rooks  forget  their  usual  stateliness  ane 
their  shy  and  lofty  habits.     Instead  of  keeping  up  in  the  higl 


THE  ROOKERY.  K)7 

regions  of  the  air,  swinging  on  tne  breezy  tree- tops,  and  look- 
ing down  with  sovereign  contempt  upon  the  humble  crawlers 
upon  earth,  they  are  fain  to  throw  off  for  a  time  the  dignity  of 
the  gentleman,  to  come  down  to  the  ground,  and  put  on  the 
pains-taking  and  industrious  character  of  a  labourer.  They 
now  lose  their  natural  shyness,  become  fearless  and  familiar, 
and  may  be  seen  plying  about  in  all  directions,  with  an  air  of 
great  assiduity,  in  search  of  building  materials.  Every  now 
jmd  then  your  path  will  be  crossed  by  one  of  these  busy  old 
gentlemen,  worrying  about  with  awkward  gait,  as  if  troubled 
with  the  gout,  or  with  corns  on  his  toes,  casting  about  many  a 
prying  look,  turning  down  first  one  eye,  then  the  other,  in 
earnest  consideration,  upon  every  straw  he  meets  with ;  until, 
espying  some  mighty  twig,  large  enough  to  make  a  rafter  for 
his  air-castle,  he  will  seize  upon  it  with  avidity,  and  hurry 
away  with  it  to  the  tree-top;  fearing,  apparently,  lest  you 
should  dispute  with  him  the  invaluable  prize. 

Like  other  castle-builders,  these  airy  architects  seem  rather 
fanciful  in  the  materials  with  which  they  build,  and  to  like 
those  most  which  come  from  a  distance.  Thus,  though  there 
are  abundance  of  dry  twigs  on  the  surrounding  trees,  yet  they 
never  think  of  making  use  of  them,  but  go  foraging  in  distant 
lands,  and  come  sailing  home,  one  by  one,  from  the  ends  of  the 
earth,  each  bearing  in  his  bill  some  precious  piece  of  timber. 

Nor  must  I  avoid  mentioning  what,  I  grieve  to  say,  rather 
derogates  from  the  grave  and  honourable  character  of  these 
ancient  gentlefolk ;  that,  during  the  architectural  season,  they 
are  subject  to  great  dissensions  among  themselves;  that  they 
make  no  scruple  to  defraud  and  plunder  each  other;  and  Dial 
sometimes  the  rookery  is  a  scene  of  hideous  brawl  and  commo- 
tion,  in  consequence  of  some  delinquency  of  the  kind.  One  of 
the  partners  generally  remains  on  the  nest,  to  guard  it  from 
jiepredation,  and  I  have  seen  severe  contests,  when  some 
sly  neighbour  lias  endeavoured  to  filch  away  a  tempting  rafter 
thai  lias  captivated  his  eye.  As  I  am  not  w^illing  to  admit  any 
suspicion  hastily,  that  should  throw  a  stigma  on  the  general 
character  of  so  worshipful  a  people,  I  am  inclined  to  think  that 
these  larcenies  are  very  much  discountenanced  by  the  higher 
Masses,  and  even  rigorously  punished  by  those  in  authority ; 
fori  have  now  and  then  seen  a  whole  gang  of  rooks  fall  upon 
the  nest  of  some  individual,  pull  it  all  to  pieces,  carry  off  the 
spoils,  and  even  buffet  the  luckless  proprietor.  I  have  con- 
cluded tins  to  be  some  signal  punishment  inflicted  upon  him, 


198  BRACliBHMGt:  HALL 

by  the  officers  of  the  police,  for  some  pilfering  misdemeanour, 
or,  perhaps,  that  it  was  a  crew  of  bailiffs  carrying  an  execution 
into  his  house. 

I  have  been  amused  with  another  of  their  movements  during 
the  building  season.     The  steward  has  suffered  a  considerable 
number  of  sheep  to  graze  on  a  lawn  near  the  house,  somewhat 
to  the  annoyance  of  the  Squire,  who  thinks  this  an  innovation 
on  the  dignity  of  a  park,  which  ought  to  be  devoted  to  deer 
only.     Be  this  as  it  may,  there  is  a  green  knoll,  not  far  froi 
the  drawing-room  window,  where  the  ewes  and  lambs  are 
customed  to  assemble  towards  evening,  for  the  benefit  of  the 
setting  sun.     No  sooner  were  they  gathered  here,  at  the  time 
when  these  politic  birds  were  building,  than  a  stately  old  rool 
who  Master  Simon  assured  me  was  the  chief  magistrate  of  thi* 
community,  would  settle  down  upon  the  head  of  one  of  the 
ewes,  who,   seeming  conscious  of  this  condescension,   wouk 
desist  from  grazing,  and  stand  fixed  in  motionless  reverence 
her  august  burthen ;  the  rest  of  the  rookery  would  then  cony 
wheeling  down,  in  imitation  of  their  leader,  until  every  ew( 
had  two  or  three  of  them  cawing,  and  fluttering,  and  battling 
upon  her  back.     Whether  they  requited  the  submission  of  the 
sheep,  by  levying  a  contribution  upon  their  fleece  for  the  bene 
fit  of  the  rookery,  I  am  not  certain;  though  I  presume  the? 
followed  the  usual  custom  of  protecting  powers. 

The  latter  part  of  May  is  the  time  of  great  tribulation  amoi 
the  rookeries,  when  the  young  are  just  able  to  leave  their  nests, 
and  balance  themselves  on  the  neighbouring  branches.     Not 
comes  on  the  season  of  "rook  shooting;"  a  terrible  slaughtei 
of  the  innocents.     The  Squire,  of  course,  prohibits  all  invasioi 
of  the  kind  on  his  territories ;  but  I  am  told  that  a  lamentable 
havoc  takes  place  in  the  colony  about  the  old  church.    Upoi 
this  devoted  commonwealth  the  village  charges  "with  all  it 
chivalry. "    Evory  idle  wight  that  is  lucky  enough  to  posses 
an  old  gun  or  blunderbuss,  together  with  all  the  archery 
siingsby's  school,  take  the  field  on  the  occasion.     In  vain  do* 
the  little  parson  interfere,   or  remonstrate,   in  angry  ton* 
from  his  study  window  that  looks  into  the  churchyard ;  thei 
is  a  continual  popping,  from  morning  till  night.     Being  no  great 
marksmen,  their  shots  are  not  often  effective ;  but  every  no^ 
and  then,  a  great  shout  from  the  besieging  army  of  bumpl 
makes  known  the  downfall  of  some  unlucky  squab  rook,  whicl 
comes  to  the  ground  with  the  emphasis  of  a  squashed  apple 
dumpling. 


TBU  ROOKERY.  190 

Nor  is  the  rookery  entirely  free  from  other  troubles  and 
disasters.  In  so  aristocratical  and  lofty-minded  a  community, 
which  boasts  so  much  ancient  blood  and  hereditary  pride,  it  is 
natural  to  suppose  that  questions  of  etiquette  will  sometimes 
arise  and  affairs  of  honour  ensue.  In  fact,  this  is  very  often 
the  case;  bitter  quarrels  break  out  between  individuals,  which 
produce  sad  scufflings  on  tree-tops,  and  I  have  more  than  oace 
seen  a  regular  duel  take  place  between  two  doughty  heroes  of 
the  rookery.  Their  field  of  battle  is  generally  the  air;  and 
their  contest  is  managed  in  the  most  scientific  and  elegant 
manner ;  wheeling  round  and  round  each  other,  and  towering 
higher  and  higher,  to  get  the  vantage-ground,  until  they  some- 
times disappear  in  the  clouds  before  the  combat  is  deter- 
mined. 

They  have  also  fierce  combats  now  and  then  with  an  invad- 
ing hawk,  and  will  drive  him  off  from  their  territories  by  a 
posse  comitatus.  They  are  also  extremely  tenacious  of  their 
domains,  and  will  suffer  no  other  bird  to  inhabit  the  grove  or 
its  vicinity.  There  was  a  very  ancient  and  respectable  old 
bachelor  owl.  that  had  long  had  his  lodgings  in  a  corner  of  the 
grove,  but  has  been  fairly  ejected  by  the  rooks ;  and  has  re- 
tired, disgusted  with  the  world,  to  a  neighbouring  wood,  where 
he  leads  the  life  of  a  hermit,  and  makes  nightly  complaints  of 
his  ill-treatment. 

The  hootings  of  this  unhappy  gentleman  may  generally  be 
heard  in  the  still  evenings,  when  the  rooks  are  all  at  rest;  and 
I  have  often  listened  to  them  of  a  moonlight  night  with  a  kind 
of  mysterious  gratification.  This  gray-bearded  misanthrope, 
of  course,  is  highly  respected  by  the  Squire ;  but  the  servants 
have  superstitious  notions  about  him,  and  it  would  be  difficult 
to  get  the  dairy -maid  to  venture  after  dark  near  to  the  wood 
which  he  inhabits. 

Beside  the  private  quarrels  of  the  rooks,  there  are  other  mis- 
fortunes- to  which  they  are  liable,  and  which  often  bring  dis- 
tress into  the  most  respectable  families  of  the  rookery.  Having 
the  true  baronial  spirit  of  the  good  old  feudal  times,  they  are  apt 
•now  and  then  to  issue  forth  from  their  castles  on  a  foray,  and 
to  lay  the  plebeian  fields  of  the  neighbouring  country  under  con- 
tribution ;  in  the  course  of  which  chivalrous  expeditions,  they 
now  and  then  get  a  shot  from  the  rusty  artillery  of  some  re- 
fractory farmer.  Occasionally,  too,  while  they  are  quietly 
taking  the  air  beyond  the  park  boundaries,  they  have  the  in- 
caution  to  come  within  the  reach  of  the  truant  bowman  of 


0()()  BRACE  BRIDGE  HALL. 

Slingsby's  school,  and  receive  a  flight  shot  from  some  unlucky 
urchin's  arrow.  In  such  case,  the  wounded  adventurer  will 
sometimes  have  just  strength  enough  to  bring  himself  home, 
and,  giving  up  the  ghost  at  the  rookery,  will  hang  dangling  ' '  all 
abn  >ad  "  on  a  bough,  like  a  thief  on  a  gibbet — an  awful  warning 
to  his  friends,  and  an  object  of  great  commiseration  to  the 
Squire. 

But,  maugre  all  these  untoward  incidents,  the  rooks  have 
upon  the  whole,  a  happy  holiday  life  of  it.  When  their  young 
,uv  reared  and  fairly  launched  *upon  their  native  element,  the 
air,  the  cares  of  the  old  folks  seem  over,  and  they  resume  all 
their  aristocratical  dignity  and  idleness.  I  have  envied  them 
the  enjoyment  which  they  appear  to  have  in  their  ethereal 
heights,  sporting  with  clamorous  exultation  about  their  lofty 
bowers;  sometimes  hovering  over  them,  sometimes  partially 
alighting  upon  the  topmost  branches,  and  there  balancing  with 
outstretched  wings  and  swinging  in  the  breeze.  Sometimes 
they  seem  to  take  a  fashionable  drive  to  the  church  and  amuse 
themselves  by  circling  in  airy  rings  about  its  spire ;  at  other 
times  a  mere  garrison  is  left  at  home  to  mount  guard  in  their 
stronghold  at  the  grove,  while  the  rest  roam  abroad  to  enjoy 
the  fine  weather.  About  sunset  the  garrison  gives  notice  of 
their  return;  their  faint  cawing  will  be  heard  from  a  great  dis- 
tance, and  they  will  be  seen  fa*r  off  like  a  sable  cloud,  and  then 
nearer  and  nearer,  until  they  all  come  soaring  home.  Then 
they  perform  several  grand  circuits  in  the  air  over  the  Hall 
and  garden,  wheeling  closer  and  closer  until  they  gradually 
settle  down,  when  a  prodigious  cawing  takes  place,  as  though 
they  were  relating  their  day's  adventures. 

I  like  at  such  times  to  walk  about  these  dusky  groves,  and 
hear  the  various  sounds  of  these  airy  people  roosted  so  high 
above  me.  As  the  gloom  increases,  their  conversation  sub- 
sides, and  they  seem  to  be  gradually  dropping  asleep;  but 
.  now  and  then  there  is  a  querulous  note,  as  if  some  one 
(iiarrelling  for  a  pillow,  or  a  little  more  of  the  blanket. 
It  is  late  in  the  evening  before  they  completely  sink  to  repose, 
and  then  their  old  anchorite  neighbour,  the  owl,  begins  his 
'ojiely  he  ting  from  his  bachelor's-hall  in  the  wood 


MAYDAY.  201 


MAY-DAY. 

It  is  the  choice  time  of  the  year, 

For  the  violets  now  appear; 

Now  the  rose  receives  its  birth, 

Ami  pretty  primrose  decks  the  earth. 
Then  to  the  May-pole  come  away. 
For  it  is  now  a  holiday. — Acteon  and  Diana. 

As  I  was  lying  in  bed  this  morning,  enjoying  one  of  those 
half  dreams,  half  reveries,  which  are  so  pleasant  in  the  eoun 
try.  when  the  birds  are  singing  about  the  window,  and  the 
sunbeams  peeping  through  the  curtains.  I  was  roused  by  the 
sound  of  music.  On  going  down-stairs  I  found  a  number  of 
villagers,  dressed  in  their  holiday  clothes,  bearing  a  pole  orna- 
mented with  garlands  and  ribands,  and  accompanied  by  the 
village  band  of  music,  under  the  direction  of  the  tailor,  the  pale 
fellow  whe  plays  on  the  clarionet.  They  had  all  sprigs  of  haw- 
thorn, or.  as  it  is  called,  "the  May,"  in  their  hats,  and  had 
brought  green  branches  and  flowers  to  decorate  the  Hall  door 
and  windows.  They  had  come  to  give  notice  that  the  May-pole 
was  reared  on  the  green,  and  to  invite  the  household  to  witness 
the  sports.  The  Hall,  according  to  custom,  became  a  scene  of 
hurry  and  delighted  confusion.  The  servants  were  all  agog  with 
May  and  music ;  and  there  was  no  keeping  either  the  tongues  or 
the  feet  of  the  maids  quiet,  who  were  anticipating  the  sports  of 
the  green  and  the  evening  dance. 

I  repaired  to  the  village  at  an  early  hour,  to  enjoy  the  merry- 
making. The  morning  was  pure  and  sunny,  such  as  a  May 
morning  is  always  described.  The  fields  were  white  with 
daisies,  the  hawthorn  was  covered  with  its  fragrant  blossoms, 
the  bee  hummed  about  every  bank,  and  the  swallow  played 
high  in  the  air  about  the  village  steeple.  It  was  one  of  those 
genial  clays  when  we  seem  to  draw  in  pleasure  with  the  very 
air  we  breathe,  and  to  feel  happy  we  know  not  why.  Who- 
ever has  felt  the  worth  of  worthy  man.  or  has  doted  on  lovely 
woman,  will,  on  such  a  day.  call  them  tenderly  to  mind,  and 
feel  his  heart  all  alive  with  long-buried  recollections.  "For 
thenne/'  says  the  excellent  romance  of  King  Arthur,  "lovers 
call  ageyne  to  their  mynde  old  gentilnes  and  old  servyse,  and 
many  kind  dedes  that  were  forgotten  by  neglygence. " 

Before  reaching  the  village,  I  saw  the  May-pole  towering 
above  the  cottages  with  its  gay  garlands  and  streamers,  and 


202  BRACEBRIDGE  II ALL. 

heard  the  sound  of  music.  I  found  that  there  had  been  booths 
set  up  near  it,  for  the  reception  of  company ;  and  a  bower  of 
green  branches  and  flowers  fo?  the  Queen  of  May,  a  fresh,  rosy- 
cheeked  girl  of  the  village. 

A  band  of  morris-dancers  were  capering  on  the  green  in 
their  fantastic  dresses,  jingling  with  hawks'  bells,  with  a  boy 
dressed  up  as  Maid  Marian,  and  the  attendant  fool  rattling  his 
box  to  collect  contributions  from  the  bystanders.  The  gipsy- 
women  too  were  already  plying  their  mystery  in  by-corners 
of  the  village,  reading  the  hands  of  the  simple  country  girls, 
and  no  doubt  promising  them  all  good  husbands  and  tribes 
of  children. 

The  Squire  made  his  appearance  in  the  course  of  the  morning, 
attended  by  the  parson,  and  was  received  with  loud  acclama- 
tions. He  mingled  among  the  country  people  throughout  the 
day,  giving  and  receiving  pleasure  wherever  he  went.  The 
amusements  of  the  day  were.under  the  management  of  Slingsby, 
the  schoolmaster,  who  is  not  merely  lord  of  misfule  in  his 
school,  but  master  of  the  revels  to  the  village.  He  was  bustling 
about,  with  the  perplexed  and  anxious  air  of  a  man  who  has 
the  oppressive  burthen  of  promoting  other  people's  merriment 
upon  his  mind.  He  had  involved  himself  in  a  dozen  scrapes, 
in  consequence  of  a  politic  intrigue,  which,  by-the-by,  Master 
Simon  and  the  Oxonian  were  at  the  bottom  of,  which  had  for 
object  the  election  of  the  Queen  of  May.  He  had  met  With  vio 
lent  opposition  from  a  faction  of  ale-drinkers,  who  were  in 
favour  of  a  bouncing  bar-maid,  the  daughter  of  the  innkeeper; 
but  he  had  been  too  strongly  backed  not  to  carry  his  point, 
though  it  shows  that  these  rural  crowns,  like  all  others,  are 
objects  of  great  ambition  and  heart-burning.  I  am  told  that 
Master  Simon  takes  great  interest,  though  in  an  underhand 
way,  in  the  election  of  these  May-day  Queens,  and  that  the 
chaplet  is  generally  secured  for  some  rustic  beauty  that  has 
found  favour  in  his  eyes. 

In  the  course  of  the  day,  there  were  various  games  of  strength 
and  agility  on  the  green,  at  which  a  knot  of  village  veterans 
presided,  as  judges  of  the  lists.  Among  these  I  perceived  that 
Heady-Money  Jack  took  the  lead,  looking  with  a  learned  and 
critical  eye  on  the  merits  of  the  different  candidates;  and, 
though  he  was  very  laconic,  and  sometimes  merely  expressed 
himself  by  a  nod,  yet  it  was  evident  that  his  opinions  far  out- 
weighed those  of  the  most  loquacious. 

Young  Jack  Tibbets  was  the  hero  of  the  day,  and  carried  off 


MAT-DAT.  203 

most  of  the  prizes,  though  in  some  of  the  feats  of  agility  he  was 
rivalled  by  the  "  prodigal  son."  who  appeared  much  in  his  ele- 
ment on  this  occasion;  but  his  most  formidable  competitor  was 
the  notorious  gipsy,  the  redoubtable  "Starlight  Torn.''  I  was 
rejoiced  at  having  an  opportunity  of  seeing  this  "minion  of  the 
moon''  in  broad  daylight.  I  found  him  a  tall,  swarthy,  good- 
looking  fellow,  with  a  lofty  air,  something  like  what  I  have 
Been  in  an  Indian  chieftain;  and  with  a  certain  lounging,  easy. 
sad  almost  graceful  carriage,  winch  I  have  often  remarked  in 
beings  of  the  lazzaroni  order,  that  lead  an  idle  loitering  life,  and 
have  a  gentlemanlike  contempt  of  labour. 

Master  Simon  and  the  old  general  reconnoitred  the  ground 
together,  and  indulged  a  vast  deal  of  harmless  raking  among 
the  buxom  country  girls.  Master  Simon  would  give  some  of 
them  a  kiss  on  meeting  with  them,  and  would  ask  after  their 
sisters,  for  he  is  acquainted  with  most  of  the  farmers'  families. 
Sometimes  he  would  whisper,  and  affect  to  talk  mischievously 
with  them,  and,  if  bantered  on  the  subject,  would  turn  it  off 
with  a  laugh,  though  it  was  evident  he  liked  to  be  suspected  of 
being  a  gay  Lothario  amongst  them. 

He  had  much  to  say  to  the  farmers  about  their  farms ;  and 
seemed  to  know  all  their  horses  by  name.  There  was  an  old 
fellow,  with  round  ruddy  face,  and  a  night-cap  under  his  hat, 
the  village  wit.  who  took  several  occasions  to  crrck  a  joke  with 
him  in  the  hearing  of  Ins  companions,  to  whom  he  would  turn 
and  wink  hard  when  Master  Simon  had  passed. 

The  harmony  of  the  day.  however,  had  nearly,  at  one  time, 
been  interrupted  by  the  appearance  of  the  radical  on  the 
ground,  with  two  or  three  of  his  disciples.  He  soon  got 
engaged  in  argument  in  the  very  thick  of  the  throng,  above 
which  I  could  hear  his  voice,  and  now  and  then  see  his  meagre 
hand,  half  a  mile  out  of  the  sleeve,  elevated  in  the  air  in  vio- 
lent gesticulation,  and  flourishing  a  pamphlet  by  way  of  trun- 
cheon. He  was  decrying  these  idle  nonsensical  amusements  in 
time  of  public  distress,  when  it  was  every  one's  business  to 
think  of  other  matters,  and  to  be  miserable.  The  honest  vil- 
lage logicians  could  make  no  stand  against  him,  especially  as 
he  was  seconded  by  his  proselytes;  when,  to  their  great  joy, 
Master  Simon  and  the  general  came  drifting  down  into  the  field 
of  action.  I  saw  that  Master  Simon  was  for  making  off.  as 
soon  as  he  found  himseit  in  the  neighbourhood  of  this  fire-ship ; 
but  the  general  was  too  loyal  to  suffer  such  talk  in  his  hearing, 
and  thought,  no  doubt,  that  a  look  and  a  word  from  a  gentie- 


204  BRACEBR1DGE  HALL. 

man  would  be  sufficient  to  snut  up  so  shabby  an  orator.  The 
latter,  however,  was  no  respecter  of  persons,  but  rather  seemed 
to  exult  in  having  such  important  antagonists.  He  talked  with 
greater  volubility  than  ever,  and  soon  drowned  them  in 
declamation  on  the  subject  of  taxes,  poor's  rates,  and  the 
national  debt.  Master  Simon  endeavoured  to  brush  along  in 
his  usual  excursive  maimer,  which  had  always  answered 
amazingly  well  with  the  villagers;  but  the  radical  was  one  of 
those  pestilent  fellows  that  pin  a  man  down  to  facts;  and, 
Indeed,  he  had  two  or  three  pamphlets  in  his  pocket,  to  sup- 
port every  thing  he  advanced  by  printed  documents.  The 
general,  too,  found  himself  betrayed  into  a  more  serious  action 
than  his  dignity  could  brook;  and  looked  like  a  mighty  Dutch 
Indiaman,  grievously  peppered  by  a  petty  privateer.  It  was 
in  vain  that  he  swelled  and  looked  big,  and  talked  large,  and 
endeavoured  to  make  up  by  pomp  of  manner  for  poverty  of 
matter:  every  home-thrust  of  the  radical  made  him  wheeze 
like  a  bellows,  and  seemed  to  let  a  volume  of  wind  out  of  him. 
In  a  word,  the  two  worthies  from  the  Hall  were  completely 
dumbfounded,  and  this  too  in  the  presence  of  several  of  Master 
Simon's  staunch  admirers,  who  had  always  looked  up  to  him 
as  infallible.  I  do  not  know  how  he  and  the  general  would 
have  managed  to  draw  their  forces  decently  from  the  field, 
had  there  not  been  a  match  at  grinning  through  a  horse-collar 
announced,  whereupon  the  radical  retired  with  great  expres- 
sion of  contempt,  and,  as  soon  as  his  back  was  turned,  the 
argument  was  carried  against  him  all  hollow. 

"Did  you  ever  hear  such1  a  pack  of  stuff,  general?"  said  Mas- 
ter Simon;  "there's  no  talking  with  one  of  these  chaps,  when 
he  once  gets  that  confounded  Cobbett  in  his  head." 

"S'blood,  sir!"  said  the  general,  wiping  his  forehead,  "such 
fellows  ought  all  to  be  transported  I" 

In  the  latter  part  of  the  day,  the  ladies  from  the  Hall  paid  a 
visit  to  the  green.  The  fair  Julia  made  her  appearance  lean 
ing  on  her  lover's  arm,  and  looking  extremely  pale  and  inter- 
esting. As  she  is  a  great  favourite  in  the  village,  where  she 
has  been  known  from  childhood ;  and  as  her  late  accident  had 
been  much  talked  about,  the  sight  of  her  caused  very  manifest 
delight,  and  some  of  the  old  women  of  the  village  blessed  her 
sweet  face  as  she  passed. 

While  they  were  walking  about,  I  noticed  the  schoolmaster 
in  earnest  conversation  with  the  young  girl  that  represented 
the  Queen  of  May,  evidently  endeavouring  to  spirit  her  up  to 


MAT-DAY.  205 

some  formidable  undertaking.  At  length,  as  the  party  from 
the  Hall  approached  her  bower,  she  came  forth,  faltering  at 
every  step,  until  she  reached  the  spot  where  the  fair  Julia 
stood  between  her  lover  and  Lady  Lillycraft.  The  little  Queen 
then  took  the  chaplet  of  flowers  from  her  head,  and  attempted 
to  put  it  on  that  of  the  bride  elect ;  but  the  confusion  of  both 
was  so  great,  that  the  wreath  would  have  fallen  to  the  ground, 
Bad  not  the  officer  caught  it,  and,  laughing,  placed  it  upon  the 
blushing  brows  of  his  mistress.  There  was  something  chai  <u 
iiig  in  the  very  embarrassment  of  these  two  young  creatures, 
both  so  beautiful,  yet  so  different  in  their  kinds  of  beauty. 
Master  Simon  told  me,  afterwards,  that  the  Queen  of  May  was 
to  have  spoken  a  few  verses  which  the  schoolmaster  had 
written  for  her ;  but  that  she  had  neither  wit  to  understand,  nor 
memory  to  recollect  them.  "Besides,"  added  he,  "between 
you  and  I,  she  murders  the  king's  English  abominably ;  so  she 
has  acted  the  part  of  a  wise  woman,  in  holding  her  tongue,  and 
trusting  to  her  pretty  face." 

Among  the  other  characters  from  the  Hall  was  Mrs.  Hannah, 
my  Lady  Lilly  craft's  gentlewoman;  to  my  surprise,  she  was 
escorted  by  old  Christy,  the  huntsman,  and  followed  by  his 
ghost  of  a  grayhound ;  but  I  find  they  are  very  old  acquaint- 
ances, being  drawn  together  by  some  sympathy  of  disposition. 
Mrs.  Hannah  moved  about  with  starched  dignity  among  the 
rustics,  who  drew  back  from  her  with  more  awe  than  they  did 
from  her  mistress.  Her  mouth  seemed  shut  as  with  a  clasp ; 
excepting  that  I  now  and  then  heard  the  word  "fellows!*' 
escape  from  between  her  lips,  as  she  got  accidentally  jostled  in 
the  crowd. 

But  there  was  one  other  heart  present  that  did  not  enter  into 
the  merriment  of  the  scene,  which  was  that  of  the  simple 
Phoebe  Wilkins,  the  housekeeper's  niece.  The  poor  girl  has 
continued  to  pine  and  whine  for  some  time  past,  in  consequence 
of  the  obstinate  coldness  of  her  lover ;  never  was  a  little  flirta- 
tion more  severely  punished.  She  appeared  this  day  on  the 
green,  gallanted  by  a  smart  servant  out  of  livery,  and  had 
evidently  resolved  to  try  the  hazardous  experiment  of  awaken- 
ing the  jealousy  of  her  lover.  She  was  dressed'  in  her  very 
best;  affected  an  air  of  great  gayety  ;  talked  loud  and  girlishly, 
and  laughed  when  there  was  nothing  to  laugh  at.  There  was 
however,  an  aching,  heavy  heart  in  the  poor  baggage's  bosom. 
in  spite  of  all  her  levity.  Her  eye  turned  every  now  and  then 
in  quest  of  her  reckless  lover,  and  her  cheek  grew  pale,  and 


206  BRACEBRIDGE  BALL. 

her  fictitious  gayety  vanished,  on  oeeing  him  paying  his  rustic 
homage  to  the  little  May-day  Queen. 

My  attention  was  now  diverted  by  a  fresh  stir  and  bustle. 
Music  was  heard  from  a  distance ;  a  banner  was  seen  advancing 
up  the  road,  preceded  by  a  rustic  band  playing  something  like 
a  march,  and  followed  by  a  sturdy  throng  of  country  lads,  the 
chivalry  of  a  neighbouring  and  rival  village. 

No  sooner  had  they  reached  the  green,  than  they  challenged 
the  heroes  of  the  day  to  new  trials  ot  strength  and  activity. 
pal  gymnastic  contests  ensued,  for  the  honour  of  the  re 
spective  villages.  In  the  course  of  these  exercises,  young  Tib 
bets  and  the  champion  of  the  adverse  party  had  an  obstinate 
h  at  wrestling.  They  tugged,  and  strained,  and  panted, 
without  either  getting  the  mastery,  until  both  came  to  the 
ground,  and  rolled  upon  the  green.  Just  then,  the  disconsolate 
Line  by.  She  saw  her  recreant  lover  in  fierce  contest, 
as  she  thought,  and  in  danger.  In  a  moment  pride,  pique,  and 
coquetry,  were  forgotten;  she  rushed  into  the  ring,  seized  upon 
the  rival  champion  by  the  hair,  and  was  on  the  point  of  wreak- 
ing on  him  her  puny  vengeance,  when  a  buxom,  strapping 
country  lass,  the  sweetheart  of  the  prostrate  swain,  pounced 
upon  her  like  a  hawk,  and  would  have  stripped  her  of  her 
fine  plumage  in  a  twinkling,  had  she  also  not  been  seized  in 
her  turn. 

A  complete  tumult  ensued.  The  chivalry  of  the  two  villages 
became  embroiled.  Blows  began  to  be  dealt,  and  sticks  to  be 
flourished.  Phoebe  was  carried  off  from  the  field  in  hysterics. 
Iu  vain  did  the  sages  of  the  village  interfere.  The  sententious 
apothecary  endeavoured  to  pour  the  soothing  oil  of  his  philo- 
sophy upon  this  tempestuous  sea  of  passion,  but  was  tumbled 
into  the  dust.  Slingsby,  the  pedagogue,  who  is  a  great  lover 
of  peace,  went  into  the  midst  of  the  throng,  as  marshal  of  the 
day,  to  put  an  end  to  the  commotion ;  but  was  rent  in  twain, 
and  came  out  with  his  garment  hanging  in  two  strips  from  his 
shoulders ;  upon  which  the  prodigal  son  dashed  in  with  fury, 
to  revenge  the  insult  which  his  patron  had  sustained.  The 
tumult  thickened ;  I  caught  glimpses  of  the  jockey-cap  of  old 
Christy,  like  the  helmet  of  a  chieftain,  bobbing  about  in  the 
midst  of  the  scuffle ;  whilst  Mistress  Hannah,  separated  from 
her  doughty  protector,  was  squalling  and  striking  at  right  and 
left  with  a  faded  parasol ;  being  tossed  and  tousled  about  by 
the  crowd  in  such  wise  as  never  happened  to  maiden  gentle- 
woman before. 


V AY-DAY.  207 

At  length  I  beheld  old  Ready-Money  Jack  making  his  way 
into  the  very  thickest  of  the  throng ;  tearing  it,  as  it  were, 
apart,  and  enforcing  peace,  vi  et  ctrmis.  It  was  surprising  to 
see  the  sudden  quiet  that  ensued.  The  storm  settled  down  at 
once  into  tranquillity.  The  parties,  having  no  real  grounds  of 
hostility,  were  -  cadily  pacified,  and  in  fact  were  a  little  at  a 
loss  to  know  why  and  how  they  had  got  by  the  ears.  Slingsby 
was  speedily  stitched  together  again  by  his  friend  the  tailor. 
and  resumed  his  usual  good-humour.  Mrs.  Hannah  drew  on 
one  side,  to  plume  her  rumpled  feathers;  and  old  Christy,  hav- 
ing repaired  his  damages,  took  her  under  his  arm,  and  they 
swept  back  again  to  the  Hall,  ten  times  more  bitter  against 
mankind  than  ever. 

The  Tibbets  family  alone  seemed  slow  in  recovering  from  the 
agitation  of  the  scene.  Young  Jack  was  evidently  very  much 
moved  by  the  heroism  of  the  unlucky  Phoebe.  His  mother, 
who  had  been  summoned  to  the  field  of  action  by  news  of  the 
affray,  was  in  a  sad  panic,  and  had  need  of  all  her  manage- 
ment to  keep  him  from  following  his  mistress,  and  coming  to 
a  perfect  reconciliation. 

What  heightened  the  alarm  and  perplexity  of  the  good 
managing  dame  was,  that  the  matter  had  aroused  the  slow 
apprehension  of  old  Ready-Money  himself;  who  was  very 
much  struck  by  the  intrepid  interference  of  so  pretty  and  deLU 
cate  a  girl,  and  was  sadly  puzzled  to  understand  the  meaning 
of  the  violent  agitation  in  his  family. 

When  all  this  came  to  the  ears  of  the  Squire,  he  was  griev- 
ously scandalized  that  his  May-day  fete  should  have  been  dis- 
graced by  such  a  brawl.  He  ordered  Phoebe  to  appear  before 
him ;  but  the  girl  was  so  frightened  and  distressed,  that  she 
came  sobbing  and  trembling,  and,  at  the  first  question  he 
asked,  fell  again  into  hysterics.  Lady  Lillycraft,  who  had 
understood  that  there  was  an  affair  of  the  heart  at  the  bot- 
tom of  this  distress,  immediately  took  the  girl  into  great  fa- 
vour and  protection,  and  made  her  peace  with  the  Squire. 
This  was  the  only  thing  that  disturbed  the  harmony  of  the 
day,  if  we  except  the  discomfiture  of  Master  Simon  and  the 
general  by  the  radical.  Upon  the  whole,  therefore,  the  Squire 
had  very  fair  reason  to  be  satisfied  that  he  had  ridden  his  hobby 
throughout  the  day  without  any  other  molestation. 

The  reader,  learned  in  these  matters,  will  perceive  that  all 
this  was  but  a  faint  shadow  of  the  once  gay  and  fanciful  rites 
of  May,    The  peasantry  have  lost  the  proper  feeling  for  these 


208  BRACEBRWGE  HALL. 

rites,  and  have  grown  almost  as  strange  to  them  as  the  hoors 
of  La  Mancha  were  to  the  customs  of  chivalry,  in  the  days  of 
the  valorous  Don  Quixote.  Indeed,  I  considered  it  a  proof  of 
the  discretion  with  which  the  Squire  rides  his  hobby,  that  he 
had  not  pushed  the  thing  any  farther,  nor  attempted  to  revive 
many  obsolete  usages  of  the  day,  which,  in  the  present  matter- 
of-fact  times,  would  appear  affected  and  absurd.  I  must  say, 
though  I  do  it  under  the  rose,  the  general  brawl  in  which  this 
festival  had  nearly  terminated,  has  made  me  doubt  whether 
these  rural  customs  of  the  good  old  times  were  always  so  very 
loving  and  innocenl  as  we  are  apt  to  fancy  them;  and  whethei 
the  peasantry  in  those  times  were  really  so  Arcadian  as  the^ 
have  been  fondly  represented.     I  begin  to  fear— 

'•  Those  days  were  never;  airy  dream 

Sat  for  the  picture,  ami  the  poet's  hand, 
Imparting  substance  to  an  empty  shade, 
Imposed  a  gay  delirium  for  a  truth. 
Grant  it;  I  still  must  envy  them  an  age 
That  favour' d  such  a  dream." 


THE   MANUSCRIPT. 

Yesterday  was  a  day  of  quiet  and  repose,  after  the  bustle  of 
May-day.  During  the  morning,  I  joined  the  ladies  in  a  sim 
sitting-room,  the  windows  of  which  came  down  to  the  flooi 
and  opened  upon  a  terrace  of  the  garden,  which  was  set  01 
with  delicate  shrubs  and  flowers.  The  soft  sunshine  that  fel 
into  the  room  through  the  branches  of  trees  that  overhung  th( 
windows,  the  sweet  smell  of  the  flowers,  and  the  singing  of  the 
birds,  seemed  to  produce  a  pleasing  yet  calming  effect  on  the 
whole  party ;  for  some  time  elapsed  without  any  one  speaking. 
Lady  Lilly  craft  and  Miss  Templeton  were  sitting  by  an  elegant 
work-table,  near  one  of  the  windows,  occupied  with  some 
pretty  lady-like  work.  The  captain  was  on  a  stool  at  his  mis- 
tress' feet,  looking  over  some  music ;  and  poor  Phoebe  Wilkins, 
who  has  always  been  a  kind  of  pet  among  the  ladies,  but  who 
has  risen  vastly  in  favour  with  Lady  Lilly  craft,  in  consequence 
of  some  tender  confessions,  sat  in  one  corner  of  the  room,  with 
swoln  eyes,  working  pensively  at  some  of  the  fair  Julia's  wed- 
ding ornaments. 

The  silence  was  interrupted  by  her  ladyship,  who  suddenly 


TEE  MANUSCRIPT.  "      208 

proposed  a  task  to  the  captain.  ' '  I  am  in  your  debt, "  said 
she,  4 '  for  that  tale  you  read  to  us  the  other  day ;  I  will  now 
furnish  one  in  return,  if  you'll  read  it :  and  it  is  just  suited  to 
this  sweet  May  morning,  for  it  is  all  about  love  I" 

The  proposition  seemed  to  delight  every  one  present.  The 
captain  smiled  assent.  Her  ladyship  rung  for  her  page,  and 
despatched  him  to  her  room  for  the  manuscript.  "As  the 
captain,"  said  she,  "gave  us  an  account  of  the  author  of  his 
story,  it  is  but  right  I  should  give  one  of  mine.  It  was  written 
by  the  parson  of  the  parish  where  I  reside.  He  is  a  thin,  elderly 
man,  of  a  delicate  constitution,  but  positively  one  of  the  most 
charming  men  that  ever  lived.  He  lost  his  wife  a  few  years 
since ;  one  of  the  sweetest  women  you  ever  saw.  He  has  two 
sons,  whom  he  educates  himself ;  both  of  whom  already  write 
delightful  poetry.  His  parsonage  is  a  lovely  place,  close  by 
the  church,  all  overrun  with  ivy  and  honeysuckles ;  with  the 
sweetest  flower-garden  about  it ;  for,  you  know,  our  country 
clergymen  are  almost  always  fond  of  flowers,  and  make  their 
parsonages  perfect  pictures. 

"His  living  is  a  very  good  one,  and  he  is  very  much 
beloved,  and  does  a  great  deal  of  good  in  the  neighbourhood, 
and  among  the  poor.  And  then  such  sermons  as  he  preaches ! 
Oh,  if  you  could  only  hear  one  taken  from  a  text  in  Solomon's 
Song,  all  about  love  and  matrimony,  one  of  the  sweetest  things 
you  ever  heard !  He  preaches  it  at  least  once  a  year,  in  spring- 
time, for  he  knows  I  am  fond  of  it.  He  always  dines  with  me 
on  Sundays,  and  often  brings  me  some  of  the  sweetest  pieces 
of  poetry,  all  about  the  pleasures  of  melancholy,  and  such  sub- 
jects, that  make  me  cry  so,  you  can't  think.  I  wish  he  would 
publish.  I  think  he  has  some  things  as  sweet  as  any  thing  of 
Moore  or  Lord  Byron. 

"He  fell  into  very  ill  health  some  time  ago,  and  was 
advised  to  go  to  the  continent;  and  I  gave  him  no  peace  until 
he  went,  and  promised  to  take  care  of  his  two  boys  until  he 
returned. 

"He  was  gone  for  above  a  year,  and  was  quite  restored. 
When  he  came  back,  he  sent  me  the  tale  I'm  going  to  show 
you.— Oh,  here  it  is!"  said  she,  as  the  page  put  in  her  hands  a 
beautiful  box  of  satinwood.  She  unlocked  it,  and  from  among 
several  parcels  of  notes  on  embossed  paper,  cards  of  charades, 
and  copies  of  verses,  she  drew  out  a  crimson  velvet  case,  that 
smelt  very  much  of  perfumes.  From  this  she  took  a  manu- 
script, daintily  written  on  gilt-ed,i;<Ml  vellum  paper,  and  stitched 


210  BRACEBHIDUK  HALL. 

with  a  light  blue  riband.  This  she  handed  to  the  captain, 
who  read  the  following  tale,  which  I  have  procured  for  the 
entertainment  of  the  reader. 


ANNETTE  DELARBRE. 

The  soldier  frae  the  war  returns, 
And  the  merchant  from  the  main, 
But  I  hae  parted  with  my  love, 
And  ne'er  to  meet  again, 

My  dear. 
And  ne'er  to  meet  again. 

When  day  is  gone,  and  night  is  come, 
And  a1  are  boun  to  sleep, 
I  think  on  them  that's  far  awa 
The  lee-lang  night,  and  weep, 

My  dear, 
The  lee-lang  night,  and  weep.— Old  Scotch  Ballad. 

In  the  course  of  a  tour  that  I  once  made  in  Lower  Normandy, 
I  remained  for  a  day  or  two  at  the  old  town  of  Honfleur,  whicl 
stands  near  the  mouth  of  the  Seine.  It  was  the  time  of  a  fete, 
and  all  the  world  was  thronging  in  the  evening  to  dance  at  the 
fair,  held  before  the  chapel  of  Our  Lady  of  Grace.  As  I  like 
all  kinds  of  innocent  merry-making,  I  joined  the  throng. 

The  chapel  is  situated  at  the  top  of  a  high  hill,  or  promon- 
tory, from  whence  its  bell  may  be  heard  at  a  distance  by  the 
mariner  at  night.  It  is  said  to  have  given  the  name  to  the  poi 
of  Havre-de-Grace,  Avhich  lies  directly  opposite,  on  the  othei 
side  of  the  Seine.  The  road  up  to  the  chapel  went  in  a  zigzag 
course,  along  the  brow  of  the  steep  coast ;  it  was  shaded  by 
trees,  from  between  which  I  had  beautiful  peeps  at  the  ancient 
towers  of  Honfleur  below,  the  varied  scenery  of  the  opposite 
shore,  the  white  buildings  of  Havre  in  the  distance,  and  the 
wide  sea  beyond.  The  road  was  enlivened  by  groups  of  pea- 
sant girls,  in  their  bright  crimson  dresses  and  tall  caps ;  and  I 
found  all  the  flower  of  the  neighbourhood  assembled  on  the 
green  that  crowns  the  summit  of  the  hill. 

The  chapel  of  Notre  Dame  de  Grace  is  a  favourite  resort  of 
the  inhabitants  of  Honfleur  and  its  vicinity,  both  for  pleasure 
and  devotion.  At  this  little  chapel  prayers  are  put  up  by  the 
mariners  of  the  port  previous  to  their  voyages,  and  by  their 
friends  during  their  absence;  and  votive  offerings  are  hung 


ANNETTE  DELAHBUE.  21 1 

about  its  walls,  in  fulfilment  of  vows  made  during  times 
of  shipwreck  and  disaster.  The  chapel  is  suiTOunded  by  trees. 
Over  the  portal  is  an  image  of  the  Virgin  and  child,  with  an 
inscription  which  struck  me  as  being  quite  poetical: 

'  Etoile  de  la  mer,  priez  pour  nous!" 
(Star  of  the  sea,  pray  for  us.) 

On  a  level  spot  near  the  chapel,  under  a  grove  of  noble  trees, 
'  the  populace  dance  on  fine  summer  evenings ;  and  here  are  held 
L'requent  fairs  and  fetes,  which  assemble  all  the  rustic  beauty 
of  the  loveliest  parts  of  Lower  Normandy.  The  present  was 
an  occasion  of  the  kind.  Booths  and  tents  were  erected  among 
the  trees ;  there  were  the  usual  displays  of  finery  to  tempt  the 
rural  coquette,  and  of  wonderful  shows  to  entice  the  curious ; 
mountebanks  were  exerting  their  eloquence;  jugglers  and 
fortune-tellers  astonishing  the  credulous ;  while  whole  x*ows  of 
grotesque  saints,  in  wood  and  wax-work,  were  offered  for  the 
purchase  of  the  pious. 

The  fete  had  assembled  in  one  view  all  the  picturesque  cos- 
tumes of  the  Pays  d'Auge,  and  the  Cote  de  Caux.  I  beheld 
tall,  stately  oaps,  and  trim  bodices,  according  to  fashions  which 
have  been  handed  down  from  mother  to  daughter  for  centuries, 
the  exact  counterparts  of  those  worn  in  the  time  of  the  Con- 
queror ;  and  which  surprised  me  by  their  faithful  resemblance 
to  those  which  I  had  seen  in  the  old  pictures  of  Froissart's 
Chronicles,  and  in  the  paintings  of  illuminated  manuscripts. 
Any  one,  also,  that  has  been  in  Lower  Normandy,  must  have 
remarked  the  beauty  of  the  peasantry,  and  that  air  of  native 
elegance  that  prevails  among  them.  It  is  to  this  country, 
undoubtedly,  that  the  English  owe  their  good  looks.  It  was 
from  hence  that  the  bright  carnation,  the  fine  blue  eye,  the 
fight  auburn  hair,  passed  over  to  England  in  the  train  of  the 
Conqueror,  and  filled  the  land  with  beauty. 

The  scene  before  me  was  perfectly  enchanting :  the  assem- 
blage of  so  many  f resh  and  blooming  faces ;  the  gay  groups  hi 
fanciful  dresses ;  some  dancing  on  the  green,  others  strolling 
about,  or  seated  on  the  graaa;  the  fine  clumps  of  trees  in  the 
foreground,  bordering  the  brow  of  this  airy  height,  and  the 
broad  green  sea,  sleeping  in  summer  tranquillity  in  the  dis- 
tance. 

Whilst  I  was  regarding  this  animated  picture,  I  was  struck 
with  the  appearance  of  a  beautiful  girl,  who  passed  through  the 
crowd  without  seeming  to  take  any  interest  in  their  amuse- 


212  BRAOBBRIDQE  HALL. 

ments.  She  was  slender  and  delicate  in  her  form ;  she  had  not 
the  bloom  upon  her  cheek  that  is  usual  among  the  peasantry  of 
Normandy,  and  her  blue  eyes  had  a  singular  and  melancholy 
expression.  She  was  accompanied  by  a  venerable-looking 
man,  whom  I  presumed  to  be  her  father.  There  was  a  whisper 
among  the  bystanders,  and  a  wistful  look  after  her  as  she 
passed ;  the  young  men  touched  their  hats;  and  some  of  the 
children  followed  her  at  a  little  distance,  watching  her  move- 
ments. She  approached  the  edge  of  the  hill,  where  there  is  a 
little  platform,  from  whence  the  people  of  Honfleur  look  out 
for  the  approach  of  vessels.  Here  she  stood  for  some  time 
waving  her  handkerchief,  though  there  was  nothing  to  be 
seen  but  two  or  three  fishing-boats,  like  mere  specks  on  the 
bosom  of  the  distant  ocean. 

These  circumstances  excited  my  curiosity,  and  I  made  some 
inquiries  about  her,  which  were  answered  with  readiness  and 
intelligence  by  a  priest  of  the  neighbouring  chapel.  Our  con- 
versation drew  together  several  of  the  by-standers,  each  of 
whom  had  something  to  communicate,  and  from  them  all  I 
gathered  the  following  particulars. 

Annette  Delarbre  was  the  only  daughter  of  one  of  the  higher 
order  of  farmers,  or  small  proprietors,  as  they  are  called,  who 
lived  at  Pont  TEveque,  a  pleasant  village  not  far  from  Honfleur, 
in  that  rich  pastoral  part  of  Lower  Normandy  called  the  Pays 
d'Auge.  Annette  was  the  pride  and  delight  of  her  parents, 
and  was  brought  up  with  the  fondest  indulgence.  She  was  gay, 
tender,  petulant,  and  susceptible.  All  her  feelings  were  quick 
and  ardent;  and  having  never  experienced  contradiction  or 
restraint,  she  was  little  practised  in  self-control :  notliing  but 
the  native  goodness  of  her  heart  kept  her  from  running  con- 
tinually into  error. 

Even  while  a  child,  her  susceptibility  was  evinced  in  an 
attachment  which  she  formed  to  a  playmate,  Eugene  La 
Forgue,  the  only  son  of  a  widow,  who  lived  in  the  neighbour- 
hood. Their  childish  love  was  an  epitome  of  maturer  passion; 
it  had  its  caprices,  and  jealousies,  and  quarrels,  and  reconcilia-. 
tions.  It  was  assuming  something  of  a  graver  character,  as 
Annette  entered  her  fifteenth  and  Eugene  his  nineteenth 
year,  when  he  was  suddenly  carried  off  to  the  army  by  the 
conscription. 

It  was  a  heavy  blow  to  his  widowed  mother,  for  he  was  her 
only  pride  and  comfort ;  but  it  was  one  of  those  sudden  bereave- 
ments which   mothers  were   perpetually  doomed  to  feel  in 


ANNETTE  r>ELARBUE.  213 

France,  during  the  time  that  continual  and  bloody  wars  were 
incessantly  draining  her  youth.  It  was  a  temporary  affliction 
also  to  Annette,  to  lose  her  lover.  With  tender  embraces,  half 
childish,  half  womanish,  she  parted  from  him.  The  tears 
streamed  from  her  blue  eyes,  as  she  bound  a  braid  of  her  fair 
hair  round  his  wrist ;  but  the  smiles  still  broke  through ;  for  she 
was  yet  too  young  to  feel  how  serious  a  thing  is  separation, 
and  how  many  chances  there  are,  when  parting  in  this  wide 
world,  against  our  ever  meeting  again. 

Weeks,  months,  years  flew  by.  Annette  increased  in  beauty 
as  she  increased  in  years,  and  was  the  reigning  belle  of  the 
neighbourhood.  Her  time  passed  innocently  and  happily.  Her 
father  was  a  man  of  some  consequence  in  the  rural  community, 
and  his  house  was  the  resort  of  the  gayest  of  the  village 
Annette  held  a  kind  of  rural  court;  she  was  always  surrounded 
by  companions  of  her  own  age,  among  whom  she  alone 
unrivalled.  Much  of  their  time  was  passed  in  making  lace,  the 
prevalent  manufacture  of  the  neighbourhood.  As  they  sat  at 
this  delicate  and  feminine  labour,  the  merry  tale  and  sprightly 
song  went  round;  none  laughed  with  a  lighter  heart  than 
Annette ;  and  if  she  sang,  her  voice  was  perfect  melody.  Their 
evenings  were  enlivened  by  the  dance,  or  by  those  pleasant 
social  games  so  prevalent  among  the  French;  and  when  she 
appeared  at  the  village  ball  on  Sunday  evenings,  she  was  the 
theme  of  universal  admiration. 

As  she  was  a  rural  heiress,  she  did  not  want  for  suitors. 
Many  advantageous  offers  were  made  her,  but  she  refused  them 
all.  She  laughed  at  the  pretended  pangs  of  her  admirers,  and 
triumphed  over  them  with  the  caprice  of  buoyant  youth  and 
conscious  beauty.  With  all  her  apparent  levity,  however, 
could  any  one  have  read  the  story  of  her  heart,  they  might 
have  traced  in  it  some  fond  remembrance  of  her  early  play- 
mate, not  so  deeply  graven  as  to  be  painful,  but  too  deep  to  be 
easily  obliterated;  and  they  might  have  noticed,  amidst  all  her 
gayety,  the  tenderness  that  marked  her  manner  towards  the 
mother  of  Eugene.  She  would  often  steal  away  from  her  youth- 
ful companions  and  their  amusements,  to  pass  whole  days  with 
the  good  widow ;  listening  to  her  fond  talk  about  her  boy,  and 
blushing  with  secret  pleasure,  when  his  letters  were  read,  at 
finding  herself  a  constant  theme  of  recollection  and  inquiry. 

At  length  the  sudden  return  of  peace,  which  sent  many  a 
warrior  to  his  native  cottage,  brought  back  Eugene,  a  young 
sun-bumt  soldier,  to  the  village.     I  need  not  say  how  raptm" 


214  BRACKBRWGhJ  HALL. 

ously  his  return  was  greeted  by  iiis  mother,  who  saw  in  him 
the  pride  and  staff  of  her  old  age.  He  had  risen  in  the  service 
by  his  merits ;  but  brought  away  little  from  the  wars,  except- 
ing a  soldier-like  air,  a  gallant  name,  and  a  scar  across  the 
forehead.  He  brought  back,  however,  a  nature  unspoiled  by 
the  camp.  He  was  frank,  open,  generous,  and  ardent.  His 
heart  was  quick  and  kind  in  its  impulses,  and  was  perhaps  a 
little  softer  from  having  suffered :  it  was  full  of  tenderness  for 
Annette.  He  had  received  frequent  accounts  of  her  from  his 
mother  j  and  the  mention  of  her  kindness  to  his  lonely  parent, 
had  rendered  her  doubly  dear  to  him.  He  had  been  wounded  \ 
he  had  been  a  prisoner;  he  had  been  in  various  troubles,  but 
had  always  preserved  the  braid  of  her  hair,  which  she  had 
bound  round  his  arm.  It  had  been  a  kind  of  talisman  to  him; 
he  had  many  a  tune  looked  upon  it  as  he  lay  on  the  bard 
ground,  and  the  thought  that  he  might  one  day  see  Annette 
again,  ana  the  fair  fields  about  his  native  village,  had  cheered 
his  heart,  and  enabled  him  to  bear  up  against  every  hardship. 

He  had  left  Annette  almost  a  child — he  found  her  a  blooming 
woman.  If  he  had  loved  her  before,  he  now  adored  her. 
Annette  was  equally  struck  with  the  improvement  which  time 
had  made  in  her  lover.  She  noticed,  with  secret  admiration, 
his  superiority  to  the  other  young  men  of  the  village;  the 
frank,  lofty,  military  air,  that  distinguished  him  from  all  the 
rest  at  their  rural  gatherings.  The  more  she  saw  him,  the 
more  her  light,  playful  fondness  of  former  years  deepened  into 
ardent  and  powerful  affeqtion.  But  Annette  was  a  rural  belle. 
She  had  tasted  the  sweets  of  dominion,  and  had  been  rendered 
wilful  and  capricious  by  constant  indulgence  at  home,  and 
admiration  abroad.  She  was  conscious  of  her  power  over 
Eugene,  and  delighted  in  exercising  it.  She  sometimes  treated 
him  with  petulant  caprice,  enjoying  the  pain  which  she  inflicted 
by  her  frowns,  from  the  idea  how  soon  she  would  chase  it  away 
again  by  her  smiles.  She  took  a  pleasure  in  alarming  his  fears, 
by  affecting  a  temporary  preference  to  some  one  or  other  of  his 
rivals ;  and  then  would  delight  in  allaying  them,  by  an  ample 
measure  of  returning  kindness.  Perhaps  there  was  some 
degree  of  vanity  gratified  by  all  this ;  it  might  be  a  matter  of 
triumph  to  show  her  absolute  power  over  the  young  soldier, 
who  was  the  universal  object  of  female  admiration.  Eugene, 
however,  was  of  too  serious  and  ardent  a  nature  to  be  trifled 
with.  He  loved  too  fervently  not  to  be  filled  with  doubt.  He 
saw  Annette  surrounded  by  admirers,  and  full  of  animation; 


ANNETTE  DELARBRE.  215 

the  gayest  among  the  gay  at  all  their  rural  festivities,  and 
apparently  most  gay  when  he  was  most  dejected.  Every  one 
saw  through  this  caprice,  but  himself;  every  one  saw  that  in 
reality  she  doted  on  him;  but  Eugene  alone  suspected  the 
Sincerity  of  her  affection.  For  some  time  he  bore  this  coquetry 
with  secret  impatience  and  distrust;  but  his  feelings  grew  sore 
and  irritable,  and  overcame  his  self-command.  A  slight  mis- 
understanding took  place;  a  quarrel  ensued.  Annette,  unac- 
customed to  be  thwarted  and  contradicted,  and  full  of  the 
insolence  of  youthful  beauty,  assumed  an  air  of  disdain.  She 
refused  all  explanations  to  her  lover,  and  they  parted  in  anger. 
That  very  evening  Eugene  saw  her,  full  of  gayety,  dancing  with 
one  of  his  rivals;  and  as  her  eye  caught  his,  fixed  on  her  with 
unfeigned  distress,  it  sparkled  with  more  than  usual  vivacity. 
It  w^as  a  finishing  blow  to  his  hopes,  already  so  much  impaired 
by  secret  distiust.  Pride  and  resentment  both  struggled  in  his 
breast,  and  seemed  to  rouse  his  spirit  to  all  its  wonted  energy. 
He  retired  from  her  presence,  with  the  hasty  determination 
never  to  see  her  again. 

A  woman  is  more  considerate  in  affairs  of  love  than  a  man; 
because  love  is  more  the  study  and  business  of  her  life.  An- 
nette soon  repented  of  her  indiscretion ;  she  felt  that  she  had 
used  her  lover  unkindly ;  she  felt  that  she  had  trifled  with  his 
sincere  and  generous  nature — and  then  he  looked  so  handsome 
when  he  parted  after  their  quarrel  -his  fine  features  lighted  up 
by  indignation.  She  had  intended  making  up  with  him  at  the 
evening  dance ;  but  his  sudden  departure  prevented  her.  She 
now  promised  herself  that  when  next  they  met  she  would  am- 
ply repay  him  by  the  sweets  of  a  perfect  reconciliation,  and 
that,  thenceforward,  she  would  never— never  tease  him  more! 
That  promise  was  not  to  be  fulfilled.  Day  after  day  passed— 
but  Eugene  did  not  make  his  appearance.  Sunday  evening 
came,  the  usual  time  when  all  the  gayety  of  the  villa, 
bled— but  Eugene  was  not  there.  She  inquired  after  him :  he 
had  left  the  village.  She  nowT  became  alarmed,  and,  forgetting 
all  coyness  and  affected  indifference,  called  on  Eugene's  mother 
for  an  explanation.  She  found  her  full  of  affliction,  and  learnt 
with  surprise  and  consternation  that  Eugene  had  gone  to  . 

While  his  feelings  were  yet  smarting  with  her  affected  dis- 
dain, and  his  heart  a  prey  to  alternate  indignation  and  despair, 
he  had  suddenly  embraced  an  invitation  which  had  repeatedly 
|een  made  him  by  a  relation,  who  was  fitting  out  a  ship  from 
the  port  of  Honfleur,  and  who  wished  him  to  be  the  companion 


216  BltACEBlUDGE  HALL. 

of  his  voyage.  Absence  appeared  to  nun  the  only  cure  for  his 
unlucky  passion ;  and  in  the  temporary  trans} toils  of  his  feel- 
ings, there  was  something  gratifying  in  the  idea  of  having  half 
the  world  intervene  between  them.  The  hurry  necessary  for 
1  lis  departure  left  no  time  for  cool  reflection;  it  rendered  him 
deaf  to  the  remonstrances  of  his  afflicted  mother.  He  lias- 
I  to  Honfleur  just  in  time  to  make  the  needful  preparations 
i  r  the  voyage;  and  the  first  news  that  Annette  received  of 
this  sudden  determination  was  a  letter  delivered  by  his  mother, 
returning  her  pledges  of  affection,  particularly  the  long-treas- 
ured braid  of  her  hair,  and  bidding  her  a  last  farewell,  in  terms 
more  full  of  sorrow  and  tenderness  than  upbraiding. 

This  was  the  first  stroke  of  real  anguish  that  Annette  had 
ever  received,  and  it  overcame  her.  The  vivacity  of  her  spirits 
was  apt  to  hurry  her  to  extremes;  she  for  a  time  gave  way  to 
ungovernable  transports  of  affliction  and  remorse,  and  mani- 
fested, in  the  violence  of  her  grief,  the  real  ardour  of  her  affec- 
tion. The  thought  occurred  to  her  that  the  ship  might  not  yet*, 
have  sailed ;  she  seized  on  the  hope  with  eagerness,  and  has- 
tened with  her  father  to  Honfleur.  The  ship  had  sailed  that ! 
very  morning.  From  the  heights  above  the  town  she  saw  ik 
lessening  to  a  speck  on  the  broad  bosom  of  the  ocean,  and 
before  evening  the  white  sail  had  faded  from  her  sight.  She 
turned  full  of  anguish  to  the  neighbouring  chapel  of  Our  Lady 
of  Grace,  and  throwing  herself  on  the  pavement,  poured  out 
prayers  and  tears  for  the  safe  return  of  her  lover. 

When  she  returned  home,  the  cheerfulness  of  her  spirits  was 
at  an  end.  She  looked  back  with  remorse  and  self-upbraiding 
at  her  past  caprices ;  she  turned  with  distaste  from  the  adula- 
tion of  her  admirers,  and  had  no  longer  any  relish  for  the 
amusements  of  the  village.  With  humiliation  and  diffidence, 
she  sought  the  widowed  mother  of  Eugene ;  but  was  received 
by  her  with  an  overflowing  heart ;  for  she  only  beheld  in  An- 
nette one  who  could  sympathize  in  her  doting  fondness  for  her 
son.  It  seemed  some  alleviation  of  her  remorse  to  sit  by  the 
mother  all  day,  to  study  her  wants,  to  beguile  her  heavy  hours, 
to  hang  about  her  with  the  caressing  endearments  of  a  daugh- 
ter, and  to  seek  by  every  means,  if  possible,  to  supply  the  place 
of  the  son,  whom  she  reproached  herself  with  having  driven 
away. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  ship  made  a  prosperous  voyage  to  her 
destined  port.  Eugene's  mother  received  a  letter  from  him,  in 
which  he  lamented  the  precipitancy  of  his  departure.    The 


ANNETTE  VELARBRE.  217 

voyage  had  given  him  time  for  sober  reflection.  If  Annette 
had  been  unkind  to  him,  he  ought  not  to  have  forgotten  what 
was  due  to  his  mother,  who  was  now  advanced  in  years.  He 
accused  himself  of  selfishness,  in  only  listening  to  the  sugges- 
tions of  his  own  inconsiderate  passions.  He  promised  to  return 
with  the  ship,  to  make  his  mind  up  to  his  disappointment,  and 

to  think  of  nothing  but  making  his  mother  happy "And 

when  he  does  return,"  said  Annette,  clasping  her  hands  with 
transport,  "it  shall  not  be  my  fault  if  he  ever  leaves  us  again.*' 

The  time  approached  for  the  ship's  return.  She  was  daily 
expected,  when  the  weather  became  dreadfully  tempestuous. 
Bay  after  day  brought  news  of  vessels  foundered,  or  driven  on 
shore,  and  the  coast  was  strewed  with  wrecks.  Intelligence 
was  received  of  the  looked-for  ship  having  been  seen  dismasted 
in  a  violent  storm,  and  the  greatest  fears  were  entertained  for 
her  safety. 

Annette  never  left  the  side  of  Eugene's  mother.  She  watched 
every  change  of  her  countenance  with  painful  solicitude,  and 
endeavoured  to  cheer  her  with  hopes,  while  her  own  mind  was 
racked  by  anxiety.  She  tasked  her  efforts  to  be  gay ;  but  it 
was  a  forced  and  unnatural  gayety:  a  sigh  from  the  mother 
would  completely  check  it ;  and  when  she  could  no  longer  re- 
strain the  rising  tears,  she  would  hurry  away  and  pour  out  her 
agony  in  secret.  Every  anxious  look,  every  anxious  inquiry 
of  the  mother,  whenever  a  door  opened,  or  a  strange  face 
appeared,  was  an  arrow  to  her  soul.  She  considered  every  dis- 
appointment as  a  pang  of  her  own  infliction,  and  her  heart 
sickened  under  the  careworn  expression  of  the  maternal  eye. 
At  length  this  suspense  became  insupportable.  She  left  the 
village  and  hastened  to  Honfleur,  hoping  every  hour,  every 
moment,  to  receive  some  tidings  of  her  lover.  She  paced  the 
pier,  and  wearied  the  seamen  of  the  port  with  her  inquiries. 
She  made  a  daily  pilgrimage  to  the  chapel  of  Our  Lady  of 
Grace;  hung  votive  garlands  on  the  wall,  and  passed  hours 
either  kneeling  before  the  altar,  or  looking  out  from  the  brow 
of  the  hill  upon  the  angry  sea. 

At  length  word  was  brought  that  the  long-wished-for  vessel 
was  in  sight.  She  was  seen  standing  into  the  mouth  of  the 
Seine,  shattered  and  crippled,  bearing  marks  of  having  been 
sadly  tempest-tost.  There  was  a  general  joy  diffused  by  her 
return;  and  there  was  not  a  brighter  eye,  nor  a  lighter  heart, 
than  Annette's,  in  the  little  port  of  Honfleur.  The  ship  came 
to  anchor  in  the  river,  and  shortly  after  a  boat  put  off  for  the 


218  BRACEBRIDOE  HALT, 

shore.  The  populace  crowded  down  to  the  pier-head,  to  wel 
come  it.  Annette  stood  blushing,  and  smiling,  and  trembling, 
and  weeping ;  for  a  thousand  painf iilly-pleasing  emotions  agi- 
tated her  breast  at  the  thoughts  of  the  meeting  and  reconcili- 
ation about  to  take  place. 

Her  heart  throbbed  to  pour  itself  out,  and  atone  to  her  gal- 
lant lover  for  all  its  errors.  At  one  moment  she  would  place 
herself  in  a  conspicuous  situation,  where  she  might  catch  his 
view  at  once,  and  surprise  him  by  her  welcome;  but  the  next 
moment  a  doubt  would  come  across  her  mind,  and  she  would 
shrink  among  the  throng,  trembling  and  faint,  and  gasping 
with  her  emotions.  Her  agitation  increased  as  the  boat  drew 
near,  until  it  became  distressing;  and  it  was  almost  a  relief  to 
her  when  she  perceived  that  her  lover  was  not  there.  She 
presumed  that  some  accident  had  detained  him  on  board  of  the 
ship ;  and  she  felt  that  the  delay  would  enable  her  to  gather 
more  self-possession  for  the  meeting.  As  the  boat  neared  the 
shore,  many  inquiries  were  made,  and  laconic  answers  returned. 
At  length  Annette  heard  some  inquiries  after  her  lover.  Her 
heart  palpitated— there  was  a  moment's  pause:  the  reply  was 
brief,  but  awful.  He  had  been  washed  from  the  deck,  with  two 
of  the  crew,  in  the  midst  of  a  stormy  night,  when  it  was  im- 
possible to  render  any  assistance.  A  piercing  shriek  broke  from 
among  the  crowd;  and  Annette  had  nearly  fallen  into  the 
waves. 

The  sudden  revulsion  of  feelings  after  such  a  transient  gleam 
of  happiness,  was  too  much  for  her  harassed  frame.  Sne  was 
carried  home  senseless.  Her  life  was  for  some  time  despaired 
of,  and  it  was  months  before  she  recovered  her  health ;  but  she 
never  had  perfectly  recovered  her  mind :  it  still  remained  uffl 
settled  with  respect  to  her  lover's  fate. 

1 '  The  subject, "  continued  my  informant,  ' '  is  never  mentioned 
in  her  hearing ;  but  she  sometimes  speaks  of  it  herself,  and  it 
seems  as  though  there  were  some  vague  train  of  impressions  in 
her  mind,  in  which  hope  and  fear  are  strangely  mingled— some 
imperfect  idea  of  ber  lover's  shipwreck,  and  yet  some  expecta- 
tion of  his  return. 

' '  Her  parents  have  tried  every  means  to  cheer  her,  and  to 
banish  these  gloomy  imager  from  her  thoughts.  They  assemble 
round  her  the  young  companions  in  whose  society  she  used  to 
delight ;  and  they  will  work,  and  chat,  and  sing,  and  laugh,  as 
formerly ;  but  she  will  sit  silently  among  them,  and  will  some- 
times weep  in  the  midst  of  their  gayety ;  and,  if  spoken  to,  will 


AXSETTE  DELARBRE.  219 

make  no  reply,  bat  look  up  with  streaming  eyes,  and  sing 
a  dismal  little  song,  which  she  has  learned  somewhere,  about  a 
shipwreck.  It  makes  every  one's  heart  ache  to  see  her  in  this 
way.  for  she  used  to  be  the  happiest  creature  in  the  village. 

"She  passes  the  greater  part  of  the  time  with  Eugene's 
mother;  whose  only  consolation  is  her  society,  and  who  dotes 
on  her  with  a  mother's  tenderness.  She  is  the  only  one  that 
has  perfect  influence  over  Amiette  in  every  mood.  The  poor 
girl  seems,  as  formerly,  to  make  an  effort  to  be  cheerful  hi  her 
company;  but  will  sometimes  gaze  upon  her  with  the  most 
piteous  look,  and  then  kiss  her  gray  hairs,  and  fall  on  her  neck 
and  weep. 

''She  is  not  always  melancholy,  however;  she  has  occasional 
intervals,  when  she  will  be  bright  and  animated  for  days  to- 
gether ;  but  there  is  a  degree  of  wildness  attending  these  fits  of 
gayety.  that  prevents  their  yielding  any  satisfaction  to  her 
friends.  At  such  times  she  will  arrange  her  room,  which  is  all 
covered  with  pictures  of  ships  and  legends  of  saints ;  and  will 
wreathe  a  white  chaplet,  as  if  for  a  wedding,  and  prepare  wed- 
.  ding  ornaments.  She  will  listen  anxiously  at  the  door,  and 
look  frequently  out  at  the  window,  as  if  expecting  some  one's 
arrival.  It  is  supposed  that  at  such  times  she  is  looking  for 
her  lover's  return ;  but,  as  no  one  touches  upon  the  theme,  nor 
mentions  his  name  in  her  presence,  the  current  of  her  thoughts 
is  mere  matter  of  conjecture.  Now  and  then  she  will  make  a 
pilgrimage  to  the  chapel  of  Notre  Dame  de  Grace ;  where  she  will 
pay  for  hours  at  the  altar,  and  decorate  the  images  with  wreaths 
that  she  had  woven;  or  will  wave  her  handkerchief  from  the 
terrace,  as  you  have  seen,  if  there  is  any  vessel  in  the  distance." 

Upwards  of  a  year,  he  informed  me,  had  now  elapsed  with- 
out effacing  from  her  mind  this  singular  taint  of  insanity; 
still  her  friends  hoped  it  might  gradually  wear  away.  They 
had  at  one  time  removed  her  to  a  distant  part  of  the  country. 
in  hopes  that  absence  from  the  scenes  connected  with  her  story 
might  have  a  salutary  effect;  but,  when  her  periodical  inelan- 
choly  returned,  she  became  more  restless  and  wretched  than 
usual,  and,  secretly  escaping  from  her  friends,  set  out  on  foot, 
without  knowing  the  road,  on  one  of  her  pilgrimages  to  the 
chapel. 

This  little  story  entirely  drew  my  attention  from  the  gay 
of  the   fete,   and  fixed  it  upon  the  beautiful   Air 
While  she  was  .ding  on  the  terrace,  the  vesper-bell  was 

rung  from  the  neighbouring  chapel.    She  listened  lor  a  moment. 


220  BRACKBRWGE  HALL. 

and  then  drawing  a  small  rosary  from  ner  bosom,  walked  in 
that  direction.  Several  of  the  peasantry  followed  her  in 
silence;  and  I  felt  too  much  interested,  not  to  do  the  same. 

The  chapel,  as  I  said  before,  is  in  the  midst  of  a  grove,  on  the 
high  promontory.  The  inside  is  hung  round  with  little  models 
oi  ships,  and  rude  paintings  of  wrecks  and  perils  at  sea,  and 
providential  deliverances — the  votive  offerings  of  captains  and 
crews  that  have  been  saved.  On  entering,  Annette  paused  fori 
a  moment  before  a  picture  of  the  virgin,  which,  I  observed,  had 
recently  been  decorated  with  a  wreath  of  artificial  flowers. 
When  she  reached  the  middle  of  the  chapel  she  .knelt  down,* 
and  those  who  followed  her  involuntarily  did  the  same  at  a 
little  distance.  The  evening  sun  shone  softly  through  the 
checkered  grove  into  one  window  of  the  chapel.  A  perfect 
stillness  reigned  within ;  and  this  stillness  was  the  more  imprest 
sive  contrasted  with  the  distant  sound  of  music  and  merriment; 
from  the  fair.  I  could  not  take  my  eyes  off  from  the  poor  sup- 
pliant; her  lips  moved  as  she  told  her  beads,  but  her  prayers 
were  breathed  in  silence.  It  might  have  been  mere  fancy  ex- 
cited by  the  scene,  that,  as  she  raised  her  eyes  to  heaven,  I 
thought  they  had  an  expression  truly  seraphic.  But  I  am 
easily  affected  by  female  beauty,  and  there  was  something  in 
tins  mixture  of  love,  devotion,  and  partial  insanity,  that  was 
inexpressibly  touch  i  ng. 

As  the  poor  girl  left  the  chapel,  there  was  a  sweet  sereDity  in 
her  looks ;  and  I  was  told  that  she  would  return  home,  and  in 
all  probability  be  calm  and  cheerful  for  days,  and  even  weeks; 
in  which  time  it  was  supposed  that  hope  predominated  in  her 
mental  malady ;  and  that,  when  the  dark  side  of  her  mind,  as 
her  friends  call  it,  was  about  to  turn  up,  it  would  be  known  by 
her  neglecting  her  distaff  or  her  lace,  singing  plaintive  songs, 
and  weeping  in  silence. 

She  passed  on  from  the  chapel  without  noticing  the  fete,  but 
smiling  and  speaking  to  many  as  she  passed.  I  followed  her 
with  my  eye  as  she  descended  the  winding  road  towards  Hon- 
fleur,  leaning  on  her  father's  arm.  "Heaven,"  thought  I,  " has 
ever  its  store  of  balms  for  the  hurt  mind  and  wounded  spirit, 
and  may  in  time  rear  up  this  broken  flower  to  be  once  more 
the  pride  and  joy  of  the  valley.  The  very  delusion  in  which 
the  poor  girl  walks,  may  be  one  of  those  mists  kindly  diffused 
by  Providence  over  the  regions  of  thought,  when  they  become 
too  fruitful  of  misery.  The  veil  may  gradually  be  raised  which 
obscures  the  horizon  of  her  mind,  as  she  is  enabled  steadily  and 


ANNETTE  PELAHBRE.  221 

Calmly  to  contemplate  the  sorrows  at  present  hidden  in  mercy 
from  her  view/' 

On  my  return  from  Paris,  about  a  year  afterwards,  I  turned 
off  from  the  beaten  route  at  Rouen,  to  revisit  some  of  the  most 
striking  scenes  of  Lower  Normandy.  Having  passed  through 
the  lovely  country  of  the  Pays  d'Auge,  I  reached  Honfleur  on 
a  fine  afternoon,  intending  to  cross  to  Havre  the  next  morn- 
ing, and  embark  for  England.  As  I  had  no  better  way  of  pass- 
big  the  evening,  I  strolled  up  the  hill  to  enjoy  the  fine  prospect 
from  the  chapel  of  Notre  Dame  de  Grace;  and  while  there,  I 
thought  of  inquiring  after  the  fate  of  poor  Annette  Delarbre. 
The  priest  who  had  told  me  her  story  was  officiating  at  vespers, 
after  which  I  accosted  him,  and  learnt  from  him  the  remaining 
circumstances.  He  told  me  that  from  the  time  I  had  seen  her 
at  the  chapel,  her  disorder  took  a  sudden  turn  for  the  worse, 
and  her  health  rapidly  declined.  Her  cheerful  intervals  became 
shorter  and  less  frequent,  and  attended  with  more  incoherency. 
She  grew  languid,  silent,  and  moody  in  her  melancholy ;  her 
form  was  wasted,  her  looks  pale  and  disconsolate,  and  it  was 
feared  she  would  never  recover.  She  became  impatient  of  all 
sounds  of  gayety,  and  was  never  so  contented  as  when  Eugene's 
mother  was  near  her.  The  good  woman  watched  over  her 
with  patient,  yearning  solicitude ;  and  in  seeking  to  beguile  her 
sorrows,  would  half  forget  her  own.  Sometimes,  as  she  sat 
looking  upon  her  pallid  face,  the  tears  would  fill  her  eyes, 
which,  when  Annette  perceived,  she  would  anxiously  wipe 
them  away,  and  tell  her  not  to  grieve,  for  that  Eugene  would 
soon  return ;  and  then  she  would  affect  a  forced  gayety,  as  in 
former  times,  and  sing  a  lively  air;  but  a  sudden  recollection 
would  come  over  her,  and  she  would  burst  into  tears,  hang- 
on  the  poor  mother's  neck,  and  entreat  her  not  to  curse  her 
for  having  destroyed  her  son. 

•  Just  at  this  time,  to  the  astonishment  of  every  one,  news  was 
received  of  Eugene;  who.  it  appeared,  was  still  living.  When 
almost  drowned,  he  had  fortunately  seized  upon  a  spar  which 
had  been  washed  from  the  ship's  deck.  Finding  himself  nearly 
exhausted,  he  had  fastened  himself  to  it,  and  floated  for  a  day 
and  night,  until  all  sense  had  left  him.  On  recovering,  he  had 
found  himself  on  board  a  vessel  bound  to  India,  but  so  ill  as 
not  to  move  without  assistance.  His  health  had  continued 
precarious  throughout  the  voyage;  on  arriving  in  India,  lie  had 
experienced  many  vicissitudes,  and  had  been  transferred  from 


222  BRACKBRIDGE  HALL. 

ship  to  ship,  and  hospital  to  hospital.  His  constitution  had 
enabled  him  to  struggle  through  every  hardship ;  and  he  was 
now  in  a  distant  port,  waiting  only  for  the  sailing  of  a  ship  to 
return  home. 

Great  caution  was  necessary  in  imparting  these  tidings  to 
the  mother,  and  even  then  she  was  nearly  overcome  by  the 
transports  of  her  joy.     But  how  to  impart  them  to  Annette, 
was  a  matter  of  still  greater  perplexity.     Her  state  of  mind  had 
been  so  morbid;  she  had  been  subject  to  such  violent  changes, 
and  the  cause  of  her  derangement  had  been  of  such  an  ineon- 
1 1  liable  and  hopeless  kind,  that  her  friends  had  always  forborne 
to  tamper  with  her  feelings.     They  had  never  even  hinted  at  the 
subject  of  her  griefs,  nor  encouraged  the  theme  when  she  ad- 
verted to  it,  but  had  passed  it  over  in  silence,  hoping  that  time 
would  gradually  wear  the  traces  of  it  from  her  recollection,  or, 
at  least,  would  render  them  less  painful.     They  now  felt  at  a 
loss  how  to  undeceive  her  even  in  her  misery,  lest  the  suddei 
recurrence  of  happiness  might  confirm  the  estrangement  of  hei 
reason,  or  might  overpower  her  enfeebled  frame.     They  ven- 
tured, however,  to  probe  those  wounds  which  they  formerly 
did  not  dare  to  touch,  for  they  now  had  the  balm  to  pour  into 
them.     They  led  the  conversation  to  those  topics  which  they 
had  hitherto  shunned,  and  endeavoured  to  ascertain  the  cur- 
rent of  her  thoughts  in  those  varying  moods  that  had  formerly 
perplexed  them.    They  found,  however,  that  her  mind  wi 
a  more  affected  than  they  had  imagined.     All  her  ide 
were  confused  and  wandering.    Her  bright  and  cheerful  moods 
which  now  grew  seldomer  than  ever,  were  all  the  effects 
mental  delusion.    At  such  times  she  had  no  recollection  of  hei 
lover's  having  been  in  danger,  but  was  only  anticipating  hh 
arrival.     "  When  the  winter  has  passed  away,"  said  she,  "  an( 
the  trees  put  on  their  blossoms,  and  the  swallow  comes  bacl 
over  tlie  sea,  he  will  return."    When  she  was  drooping  anc 
desponding,  it  was  in  vain  to  remind  her  of  what  she  had  saic 
in  her  gayer  moments,  and  to  assure  her  that  Eugene  woul( 
indeed  return  shortly.     She  wept  on  in  silence,  and  appeal 
insensible  to  their  words.     But  at  times  her  agitation  became 
violent,  when  she  would  upbraid  herself  with  having  driver 
Eugene  from  his  mother,  and  brought   sorrow  on  her  grai 
hairs.     Her  mind  admitted  but  one  leading  idea  at  a  time 
which  nothing  could  divert  or  efface ;  or  if  they  ever  succeede 
in  interrupting  the  current  of  her  fancy,  it  only  became  the 
more  incoherent,  and  increased  the  feverishness  that  preye 


ANNETTE  DELARBRE.  223 

upon  both  mind  and  body.  Her  friends  felt  more  alarm  fo* 
her  than  ever,  for  they  feared  that  her  senses  were  irrecovera- 
bly gone,  and  her  constitution  completely  undermined. 

In  the  mean  time,  Eugene  returned  to  the  village.  He  was 
violently  affected,  when  the  story  of  Annette  was  told  him. 
With  bitterness  of  heart  he  upbraided  his  own  rashness  and 
infatuation  that  had  hurried  him  away  from  her,  and  accused 
himself  as  the  author  of  all  her  woes.  His  mother  would  de- 
scribe to  him  all  the  anguish  and  remorse  of  poor  Annette ;  the 
tenderness  with  which  she  clung  to  her,  and  endeavoured, 
even  in  the  midst  of  her  insanity,  to  console  her  for  the  loss 
of  her  son,  and  the  touching  expressions  of  affection  that  were 
mingled  with  her  most  incoherent  wanderings  of  thought,  until 
his  f eelings  would  be  wound  up  to  agony,  and  he  would  entreat 
her  to  desist  from  the  recital.  They  did  not  dare  as  yet  to 
bring  him  into  Annette's  sight ;  but  he  was  permitted  to  see 
her  when  she  was  sleeping.  The  tears  streamed  down  Ins  sun- 
burnt cheeks,  as  he  contemplated  the  ravages  which  grief  and 
malady  had  made ;  and  his  heart  swelled  almost  to  breaking, 
as  he  beheld  round  her  neck  the  very  braid  of  hair  which  she 
once  gave -him  in  token  of  girlish  affection,  and  which  he  had 
returned  to  her  in  anger. 

At  length  the  physician  that  attended  her  determined  to  ad- 
venture upon  an  experiment,  to  take  advantage  of  one  of  those 
cheerful  moods  when  her  mind  was  visited  by  hope,  and  to 
endeavour  to  engraft,  as  it  were,  the  reality  upon  the  delusions 
of  her  fancy.  These  moods  had  now  become  very  rare,  for 
nature  was  sinking  under  the  continual  pressure  of  her  mental 
malady,  and  the  principle  of  reaction  was  daily  growing 
weaker.  Everj^  effort  was  tried  to  bring  on  a  cheerful  interval 
of  the  kind.  Several  of  her  most  favourite  companions  were 
kept  continually  about  her;  they  chatted  gayly,  they  laughed, 
and  sang,  and  danced;  but  Annette  reclined  with  languid 
frame  and  hollow  eye,  and  took  no  part  in  their  gayety.  At 
length  the  winter  was  gone ;  the  trees  put  forth  their  leaves ; 
the  swallows  began  to  build  in  the  eaves  of  the  house,  and 
the  robin  and  wren  piped  all  day  beneath  the  window.  An- 
nette's spirits  gradually  revived.  She  began  to  deck  her 
person  with  unusual  care ;  and  bringing  forth  a  basket  of  arti- 
ficial flower;-,  she  went  to  work  to  wreathe  a  bridal  chaplet  of 
white  roses.  Her  companions  asked  her  why  she  prepared  the 
chaplet.  "What!"'  said  she  with  a  smile,  "have  you  not  no- 
ticed the  trees  putting  on  their  wedding  dresses  of  blossoms? 


224  BRAUEBMDGfi  HALL. 

Has  not  thi  swallow  flown  back  over  the  sea?  Do  you  not 
know  that  the  time  is  come  for  Eugene  to  return?  that  he  will 
be  home  to-morrow,  and  that  on  Sunday  we  are  to  be  married?" 

Her  words  were  repeated  to  the  physician,  and  he  seized  on 
them  at  once.  He  directed  that  her  idea  should  be  encouraged 
and  acted  upon.  Her  words  were  echoed  through  the  house. 
Every  one  talked  of  the  return  of  Eugene,  as  a  matter  of 
course;  they  congratulated  her  upon  her  approaching  happi- 
and  assisted  her  in  her  preparations.  The  next  morning, 
the  same  theme  was  resumed.  She  was  dressed  out  to  receive 
her  lover.  Every  bosom  fluttered  with  anxiety.  A  cabriolet 
drove  into  the  village.  "Eugene  is  coming!"  was  the  cry. 
She  saw  him  alight  at  the  door,  and  rushed  with  a  shriek  into 
his  arms. 

Her  friends  trembled  for  the  result  of  this  critical  experi- 
ment; but  she  did  not  sink  under  it,  for  her  fancy  had  pre- 
pared her  for  his  return.  She  was  as  one  in  a  dream,  to  whom 
a  tide  of  unlooked-for  prosperity,  that  would  have  overwhelmed 
his  waking  reason,  seems  but  the  natural  current  of  circum- 
stances. Her  conversation,  however,  showed  that  her  senses 
were  wandering.  There  was  an  absolute  forgetfulness  of  all 
past  sorrow — a  wild  and  feverish  gayety,  that  at  times  was 
incoherent. 

The  next  morning,  she  awoke  languid  and  exhausted.  All 
the  occurrences  of  the  preceding  day  had  passed  away  from 
her  mind,  as  though  they  had  been  the  mere  illusions  of  her 
fancy.  She  rose  melancholy  and  abstracted,  and,  as  she 
dressed  herself,  was  heard  to  sing  one  of  her  plaintive  ballads. 
When  she  entered  the  parlour,  her  eyes  were  swoln  with 
weeping.  She  heard  Eugene's  voice  without,  and  started.  She 
passed  her  hand  across  her  forehead,  and  stood  musing,  like 
one  endeavouring  to  recall  a  dream.  Eugene  entered  the 
room,  and  advanced  towards  her;  she  looked  at  him  with  an 
eager,  searching  look,  murmured  some  indistinct  words,  and, 
before  he  could  reach  her,  sank  upon  the  floor. 

She  relapsed  into  a  wild  and  unsettled  state  of  mind;  but 
now  that  the  first  shock  was  over,  the  physician  ordered  that 
Eugene  should  keep  continually  in  her  sight.  Sometimes  she 
did  not  know  him;  at  other  times  she  would  talk  to  him  as  if 
he  were  going  to  sea,  and  would  implore  him  not  to  part  from 
her  in  anger ;  and  when  he  was  not  present,  she  would  speak 
of  him  as  if  buried  in  the  ocean,  and  would  sit,  with  clasped 
hands,  looking  upon  the  ground,  the  picture  of  despair. 


ANNETTH   DELARBRE.  .     225 

As  the  agitation  of  her  feelings  subsided,  and  her  frame  re- 
covered from  the  shock  which  it  had  received,  she  became 
more  placid  and  coherent.  Eugene  kept  almost  continually 
near  her.  He  formed  the  real  object  roimd  which  her  scattered 
ideas  once  more  gathered,  and  which  linked  them  once  more 
with  the  realities  of  life.  But  her  changeful  disorder  now 
appeared  to  take  a  new  turn.  She  became  languid  and  inert, 
and  would  sit  for  hours  silent,  and  almost  in  a  state  of  lethargy. 
If  roused  from  this  stupor,  it  seemed  as  if  her  mind  would 
make  some  attempts  to  follow  up  a  train  of  thought,  but  would 
soon  become  confused.  She  would  regard  every  one  that 
approached  her  with  an  anxious  and  inquiring  eye,  that  seemed 
continually  to  disappoint  itself.  Sometimes,  as  her  lover  sat 
holding  her  hand,  she  would  look  -  pensively  in  his  face  with- 
out saying  a  word,  until  his  heart  was  overcome;  and  after 
these  transient  fits  of  intellectual  exertion,  she  would  sink 
again  into  lethargy. 

By  degrees,  this  stupor  increased;  her  mind  appeared  to 
have  subsided  into  a  stagnant  and  almost  death-like  calm. 
For  the  greater  part  of  the  time,  her  eyes  were  closed ;  her  face 
almost  as  fixed  and  passionless  as  that  of  a  corpse.  She  no 
longer  took  any  notice  of  surrounding  objects.  There  was  an 
awfulness  in  this  tranquillity,  that  filled  her  friends  with 
apprehensions.  The  physician  ordered  that  she  should  be  kept 
perfectly  quiet ;  or  that,  if  she  evinced  any  agitation,  she  should 
be  gently  lulled,  like  a  child,  by  some  favourite  tune. 

She  remained  in  this  state  for  hours,  hardly  seeming  to 
breathe,  and  apparently  sinking  into  the  sleep  of  death.  Her 
chamber  was  profoundly  still.  The  attendants  moved  about  it 
with  noiseless  tread ;  every  thing  was  communicated  by  signs 
and  "whispers.  Her  lover  sat  by  her  side,  watching  her  with 
painful  anxiety,  and  fearing  that  every  breath  which  stole  from 
her  pale  lips  would  be  the  last. 

At  length  she  heaved  a  deep  sigh ;  and,  from  some  convul- 
sive motions,  appeared  to  be  troubled  in  her  sleep.  Her  agita- 
tion increased,  accompanied  by  an  indistinct  moaning.  One 
of  her  companions,  remembering  the  physician's  instructions, 
endeavoured  to  lull  her  by  singing,  in  a  low  voice,  a  tender 
little  air,  which  was  a  particular  favourite  of  Annette's.  Prob- 
ably it  had  some  connexion  in  her  mind  with  her  own  story ; 
for  ever y  fond  girl  has  some  ditty  of  the  kind,  linked  in  her 
thoughts  with  sweet  and  sad  remembrances. 

As  she  sang,  the  agitation  of  Annette  subsided.     A  streak 


226  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

of  faint  colour  came  into  her  cheeks ;  her  eyelids  became  swoln 
-with  rising  tears,  which  trembled  there  for  a  moment,  and 
then,  stealing  forth,  coursed  down  her  pallid  cheek.  When 
the  song  was  ended,  siie  opened  her  eyes  and  looked  about  her, 
as  one  awakening  in  a  strange  place. 

"  Oh.  EUgene !  Eugene  |M  said  she.  "  it  seems  as  if  I  have  had 
a  long  and  dismal  dream ;  what  has  happened,  and  what  has 
been  the  matter  with  mer" 

The  questions  were  embarrassing ;  and  before  they  could  be 
answered,  the  physician,  vvho  was  in  the  next  room,  entered. 
She  took  him  by  the  hand,  looked  up  in  his  face,  and  made  the 
same  inquiry.  He  endeavoured  to  put  her  off  with  some  evasive 
answer;—  "No,  no!"  cried  she,  "  I  know  I  have  been  ill,  and  I 
have  been  dreaming  strangely.  I  thought  Eugene  had  left  us 
— and  that  he  had  gone  to  sea— and  that— and  that  he  was 
drowned!— But  he  has  been  to  sea!"  added  she,  earnestly,  as 
recollection  kept  Hashing  upon  her,  ' '  and  he  has  been  wrecked 
— and  we  were  all  so  wretched — and  he  came  home  again  one 

bright  morning— and Oh!"  said  she,  pressing  her  hand 

against  her  forehead,  with  a  sickly  smile,  "  I  see  how  it  is  j  all 
has  not  been  right  here  i  I  begin  to  recollect— but  it  is  all  past 
now— Eugene  is  here !  and  his  mother  is  happy— and  we  shall 
never— never  part  again— shall  we,  Eugene?" 

She  sunk  back  in  her  chair,  exhausted ;  the  tears  streamed 
down  her  cheeks.  Her  companions  hovered  round  her,  not 
knowing  what  to  make  of  this  sudden  dawn  of  reason.  Her 
lover  sobbed  aloud.  She  opened  her  eyes  again,  and  looked 
upon  them  with  an  air  of  the  sweetest  acknowledgment.  ' '  You 
are  all  so  good  to  me !"  said  she,  faintly. 

The  physician  drew  the  father  aside.  "Your  daughter's 
mind  is  restored,"  said  he;  "she  is  sensible  that  she  has  been 
deranged ;  she  is  growing  conscious  of  the  past,  and  conscious 
of  the  present.  All  that  now  remains  is  to  keep  her  calm  and 
quiet  Until  her  health  is  re-established,  and  then  let  her  be  mar- 
ried in  God's  name !" 

"The  wedding  took  place,"  continued  the  good  priest,  "but 
a  short  time  since ;  they  were  here  at  the  last  fete  during  their 
honeymoon,  and  a  handsomer  and  happier  couple  was  not  to 
be  seen  as  they  danced  under  yonder  trees.  The  young  man, 
his  wife,  and  mother,  now  live  oli  a  fine  f arm  at  Pont  l'Eveque ; 
and  that  model  of  a  ship  which  you  see  yonder,  with  white 
flowers  wreathed  round  it,  is  Annette's  offering  of  thanks  to 
Our  Lady  of  Grace,  for  having  listened  to  her  prayers,  and 
protected  her  lover  in  the  hour  of  peril." 


ANNETTE  DELAIWR7.  227 

The  captain  having  finished,  there  was  a  momentary  silence. 
The  tender-hearted  Lady  Lillycraft,  who  knew  the  story  by 
heart,  had  led  the  way  in  weeping,  and  indeed  had  often  begun 
to  shed  tears  before  they  had  come  to  the  right  place. 

The  fair  Julia  was  a  little  flurried  at  the  passage  where  wed- 
ding preparations  wi m  v  i  1  u !  1  it ioned ;  but  the  auditor  most  affected 
was  the  simple  Phoebe  Wilkins.  Sue  had  gradually  dropt  her 
work  in  her  lap,  and  sat  sobbing  through  the  latter  part  of  the 
story,  until  towards  the  end,  when  the  happy  reverse  had 
nearly  produced  another  scer.e  of  hysterics.  ' '  Go,  take  this 
case  to  my  room  again,  child,"  said  Lady  Lillycraft,  kindly, 
"  and  don't  cry  so  much." 

"I  won't,  an't  please  your  ladyship,  if  I  can  help  it; — but  I'm 
glad  they  made  all  up  again,  and  were  married." 

By  the  way,  the  case  of  this  lovelorn  damsel  begins  to  make 
some  talk  in  the  household,  especially  among  certain  little 
ladies,  not  far  in  their  teeiis,  of  whom  she  has  made  confidants. 
She  is  a  great  favourite  with  them  all,  but  particularly  so  since 
she  has  confided  to  then!  her  love  secrets.  They  enter  into  her 
concerns  with  all  the  violent  zeal  and  overwhelming  sympathy 
with  which  little  boarding-school  ladies  engage  in  the  politics 
of  a  love  affair. 

I  have  noticed  them  frequently  clustering  about  her  in  private 
conferences,  or  walking  up  and  down  the  garden  terrace  under 
my  window,  listening  to  some  long  and  dolorous  story  of  her 
afflictions ;  of  which  I  could  now  and  then  distinguish  the  ever- 
ecurring  phrases,  "  says  he,"  and  "  says  she." 

I  accidentally  interrupted  one  of  these  little  Councils  of  war, 
when  they  were  all  huddled  together  under  a  tree,  and  seemed 
to  be  earnestly  considering  some  interesting  document.  The 
flutter  at  my  approach  showed  that  there  were  some  secrets 
under  discussion;  and  I  observed  the  disconsolate  Phoebe 
crumpling  into  her  bosom  either  a  love-letter  or  an  old  valon 
tine,  and  brushing  away  the  tears  from  her  cheeks. 

The  girl  is  a  good  girl,  of  a  soft  melting  nature,  and  showr:1 
her  concern  at  the  cruelty  of  her  lover  only  in  tears  and  dronp- 
ing  looks;  but  with  the  little  ladies  who  have  espoused  her 
cause,  it  sparkles  up  into  fiery  indignation:  and  I  have  noti< v. 
on  Sunday  many  a  glance  darted  at  the  pew  of  the  Tibbetfe' 
enough  even  to  melt  down  the  silver  buttons  on  old  Read  y- 
Money's  jacket. 


228  BRA  VEBRIDQ  K  1IA  LL. 


TRAVELLING. 

A  citizen,  for  recreation  sake. 

the  country  would  a  Journey  take 
Bome  dozen  mile,  or  very  little  more; 
Taking  his  leave  with  friends  two  months  before, 
With  drinking  healths,  and  shaking  by  the  hand. 
As  he  had  travail'd  to  some  new-found  land. 

—  Doctor  Merrie  Man,  1600. 

The  Squire  has  lately  received  another  shock  in  the  saddle, 
and  been  almost  unseated  by  his  marplot  neighbour,  the  inde- 
fatigable Mr.  Faddy,  who  rides  his  jog-trot  hobby  with  equal 
zeal;  and  is  so  bent  upon  improving  and  reforming  the  neigh- 
bourhood, that  the  Squire  thinks,  in  a  little  while,  it  will  be 
scarce  worth  living  in.  The  enormity  that  has  thus  discom- 
posed my  worthy  host,  is  an  attempt  of  the  manufacturer  to 
have  a  line  of  coaches  established,  that  shall  diverge  from  the 
old  route,  and  pass  through  the  neighbouring  village. 

I  believe  I  have  mentioned  that  the  Hall  is  situated  in  a 
retired  part  of  the  country,  at  a  distance  from  any  great  coach - 
road ;  insomuch  that  the  arrival  of  a  traveller  is  apt  to  make 
every  one  look  out  of  the  window,  and  to  cause  some  talk 
among  the  ale-drinkers  at  the  little  inn.  I  was  at  a  loss,  there! 
fore,  to  account  for  the  Squire's  indignation  at  a  measure 
apparently  fraught  with  convenience  and  advantage,  until  I 
found  that  the  conveniences  of  travelling  were  among  his 
greatest  grievances. 

In  fact,  he  rails  against  stage-coaches,  post-chaises,  and  turn- 
pike-roads, as  serious  causes  of  the  corruption  of  English  rural 
manners.  They  have  given  faculties,  he  says,  to  every  hum- 
drum citizen  to  trundle  his  family  about  the  kingdom,  and 
have  sent  the  follies  and  fashions  of  town,  whirling,  hi  coach- 
loads, to  the  remotest  parts  of  the  island.  The  whole  country, 
he  says,  is  traversed  by  these  flying  cargoes;  every  by-road  is 
explored  by  enterprising  tourists  from  Cheapside  and  the 
Poultry,  and  every  gentleman's  park  and  lawns  invaded  by 
cockney  sketchers  of  both  sexes,  with  portable  chairs  and  port- 
folios for  drawing. 

He  laments  over  this,  as  destroying  the  charm  of  privacy, 
and  interrupting  the  quiet  of  country  life ;  but  more  especially 
as  affecting  the  simplicity  of  the  peasantry,  and  filling  their 
heads  with  half -city  notions.  A  great  coach-inn,  he  says,  is 
enough  to  ruin  the  manners  of  a  whole  village.     It  creates  a 


77M  VBLLING.  %2Q 

horde  of  sots  and  idlers,  makes  gapers  and  gazers  and  news- 
mongers of  the  common  people,  and  knowing  jockeys  of  the 
country  bumpkins. 

The  Squire  has  something  of  the  old  feudal  feeling.  He  looks 
bark  with  regret  to  the  ''  good  old  times"  when  journeys  were 
only  made  on  horseback,  and  the  extraordinary  difficulties  of 
(ravelling,  owing  to  bad  roads,  bad  accommodations,  and  high- 
way robbers,  seemed  to  separate  each  village  and  hamlet  from 
the  rest  of  the  world.  The  lord  of  the  manor  was  then  a  kind 
of  monarch  in  the  little  realm  around  him.  He  held  Iris  court 
in  his  paternal  hall,  and  was  looked  up  to  with  almost  as  much 
loyalty  and  deference  as  the  king  himself.  Every  neighbour- 
hood was  a  little  world  within  itself,  having  its  local  manners 
and  customs,  its  local  history  and  local  opinions.  The  inhabi- 
tants were  fonder  of  their  homes,  and  thought  less  of  wandering. 
It  was  looked  upon  as  an  expedition  to  travel  out  of  sight  of  the 
pa  rim  steeple;  and  a  man  that  had  been  to  London  was  a  vil- 
i  >racle  for  the  rest  of  his  life. 

t  a  difference  between  the  mode  of  travelling  in  those 
pays  and  at  present!    At  that  time,  when  a  gentleman  went  on 
a  distant  visit,  he  sallied  forth  like  a  knight -errant  on  an  enter- 
prise, and  every  family  excursion  was  a  pageant.     How  splendid 
and  fanciful  must  one  of  those  domestic  cavalcades  have  been, 
where  the  beautiful  dames  were  mounted  on  palfreys  magnifi- 
cently caparisoned,  with  embroidered  harness,  all  tinkling  with 
silver  bells,  attended  by  cavaliers  richly  attired  on  prancing 
steeds,  and  followed  by  pages  and  serving-men.  as  we  sec  them 
represented  in  old  tapestry:    The  gentry,  as  they  travelled 
faknit  in  those  days,  were  like  moving  pictures.    They  delighted 
The  eyes  and  awakened  the  admiration  of  the  common  people, 
uu.1  pa >>ed  before  them  like  superior  beings:  and.  indeed,  they 
so;  there  was  a  hardy  and  healthful  exercise  connected 
frith  this  equestrian  style  that  made  them  generous  and  noble. 
In  his  fondness  for  the  old  style  of  travelling,  the  Squirt 
makes  most  of  his  journeys  on  horseback,  though  he  laments 
aodern  deficiency  of  incident  on  the  road,  from  the  want 
of  fellow-wayfarers,  and  the  rapidity  with  which  every  one  else 
is  whirled  along  in  coaches  and  post-chaises.     In  the  ' '  u<  k  ><1  "LI 
."'  on  the  contrary,  a  cavalier  jogged  on  through  bog  and 
mire,  from  town  to  town  and  hamlet  to  hamlet,  conversing 
With  friars  and  franklins,  and  all  other  chance  companions  of 
the  road:  beguiling  the  way  with  travellers' tales,  which  then 
Were  truly  wonderful,  for  every  thing  beyond  one's  neighbour- 


230  BBACEBRIDQE  BATK 

hood  was  full  of  marvel  ami  romance;  stopping  at  night  at 
some  "  hostel,"  where  the  bush  over  the  door  proclaimed  good 
wine,  or  a  pretty  hostess  made  bad  wine  palatable ;  meeting  at  \ 
supper  with  travellers,  or  listening  to  the  song  or  merry  story  \ 
of  the  host,  who  was  generally  a  boon  companion,  and  presided  I 
at  his  own  board;  for,  according  to  old  Tusser's  "Innholders 
Posio," 

44  Atmeales  my  friend  who  vitloth  here 
And  sitteth  with  his  host. 

shall  both  be  sure  of  better  cheere, 

And  'scape  with  lesser  i 

The  Squire  is  fond,  too,  of  stopping  at  those  inns  which  may 
be  met  with  here  and  there  in  ancient  houses  of  wood  and 
plaster,  or  ralimanco  houses,  as  they  are  called  by  antiquaries, 
with  deep  porches,  diamond-pa ncd  bow-windows,  pannelled 
rooms,  and  great  fire-places.  He  will  prefer  them  to  more  spa- 
cious  and  modem  inns,  and  would  cheerfully  put  up  with  bad 
cheer  and  bad  accommodations  in  the  gratification  of  his  hu- 
mour. They  give  him.  he  says,  the  feelings  of  old  times,  inso- 
much that  he  almost  expects  in  the  dusk  of  the  evening  to  see 
some  party  of  weary  travellers  ride  up  to  the  door  with  plumes 
and  mantles,  trunk-hose,  wide  boots,  and  long  rapiers. 

The  good  Squire's  remarks  brought  to  mind  a  visit  that  I 
once  paid  to  the  Tabbard  Inn,  famous  for  being  the  place  of 
assemblage  from  whence  Chaucer's  pilgrims  set  forth  for  Can- 
terbury. It  is  in  the  borough  of  South  wark,  not  far  from  Lon- 
don Bridge,  and  bears,  at  present,  the  name  of  "the  Talbot." 
It  has  sadly  declined  uT dignity  since  the  days  of  Chaucer, 
being  a  mere  rendezvous  and  packing-place  of  the  great  wagons 
that  travel  into  Kent.  The  court-yard,  which  was  anciently  the 
mustering-place  of  the  pilgrims  previous  to  their  departure, 
was  now  lumbered  with  huge  wagons.  Crates,  boxes,  ham- 
pers, and  baskets,  containing  the  good  things  of  town  and 
country,  were  piled  about  them;  while,  among  the  straw  and 
litter,  the  motherly  hens  scratched  and  clucked,  with  their, 
hungry  broods  at  their  heels.  Instead  of  Chaucer's  motley  and 
splendid  throng,  I  only  saw  a  group  of  wagoners  and  stable- 
boys  enjoying  a  circulating  pot  of  ale;  while  a  long-bodied  dog 
sat  by,  with  head  on  one  side,  ear  cocked  up,  and  wistful  gaze, 
as  if  waiting  for  his  turn  at  the  tankard. 

Notwithstanding  this  grievous  declension,  however,  I  was 
gratified  at  perceiving  that  the  present  occupants  were  not  un- 
conscious of  the  poetical  renown  of  their  mansion.    An  inscrip* 


TRAVELLING.  -JH  | 

tion  over  the  gateway  proclaimed  it  to  be  the  inn  whew  Chau- 
cer's pilgrims  slept  on  the  night  previous  to  their  departure-, 
and  at  the  bottom  of  the  yard  was  a  magnificent  sign  represent- 
ing them  in  the  act  of  sallying  forth.  I  was  pleased,  too,  at 
noticing  that  though  the  present  inn  was  comparatively  mod- 
ern, yet  the  form  of  the  old  inn  was  preserved.  There  were 
galleries  round  the  yard,  as  in  old  times,  on  which  opened  the 
chambers  of  the  guests.  To  these  ancient  inns  have  antiqua- 
ries ascribed  the  present  forms  of  our  theatres.  Plays  were 
originally  acted  in  inn-yards.  The  guests  loDed  over  the  gal- 
leries, which  answered  to  our  modern  dress-circle ;  the  critical 
mob  clustered  in  the  yard,  instead  of  the  pit;  and  the  groups 
gazing  from  the  garret- windows  were  no  bad  representatives  of 
the  gods  of  the  shilling  gallery.  When,  therefore,  the  drama 
grew  important  enough  to  have  a  house  of  its  own,  the  archi- 
tects took  a  hint  for  its  construction  from  the  yard  of  the 
ancient  ' '  hostel. " 

I  was  so  well  pleased  at  finding  these  remembrances  of 
Chaucer  and  his  poem,  that  I  ordered  my  dinner  in  the  little 
parlour  of  the  Talbot.  Whilst  it  was  preparing,  I  sat  at  the 
window  musing  and  gazing  into  the  court-yard,  and  conjuring 
up  recollections  of  the  scenes  depicted  in  such  lovely  colours  by 
the  poet,  until,  by  degrees,  boxes,  bales  and  hampers,  boys, 
wagoners  and  dogs,  faded  from  sight,  and  my  fancy  peopled 
the  place  with  the  motley  throng  of  Canterbury  pilgrims.  The 
galleries  once  more  swarmed  with  idle  gazers,  in  the  rich 
dresses  of  Chaucer's  time,  and  the  whole  cavalcade  seemed  to 
pass  before  me.  There  was  the  stately  knight  on  sober  steed, 
who  had  ridden  in  Christendom  and  heathenesse,  and  had 
"foughten  for  our  faith  at  Tramissene;"— and  his  son,  the 
young  squire,  a  lover,  and  a  lusty  bachelor,  with  ourled  locks 
and  gay  embroidery;  a  bold  rider,  a  dancer,  and  a  writer  of 
verses,  singing  and  fluting  all  day  long,  and  "fresh  as  the 
month  of  May;"— and  his  "knot-headed"  yeoman;  a  bold 
forester,  in  green,  with  horn,  and  baudrick,  and  dagger,  a 
mighty  bow  in  hand,  and  a  sheaf  of  peacock  arrows  shining 
beneath  his  belt ;— and  the  coy,  smiling,  simple  nun,  with  her 
gray  eyes,  her  small  red  mouth,  and  fair  forehead,  her  dainty 
person  clad  in  f eatly  cloak  and  ' '  'ypinched  wimple, "  her  choral 
beads  about  her  arm,  her  golden  brooch  with  a  love  motto,  and 
her  pretty  oath  by  Saint  Eloy ;— and  the  merchant,  solemn  in 
speech  and  high  on  horse,  with  forked  beard  and  ' '  Flaundrish 
bever  hat ;"— and  the  lusty  monk,  "  full  fat  and  in  good  point," 


232  WACEBRIDGK  HALL. 

with  berry  b*Y/*m  palfrey,  his  hood  fastened  with  gold  pin, 
wrought  with  a  love-knot,  his  bald  head  shining  like  glass,  and 
Ins  face  glistening  as  though  it  had  been  anointed;  and  the 
lean,  logical,  sententious  clerk  of  Oxenforde,  upon  his  half- 
starved,  scholar-like  horse;  and  the  bowsing  sompnour,  with 
fiery  cherub  face,  all  knobbed  with  pimples,  an  eater  of  garlic 
and  onions,  and  drinker  of  "strong  wine,  red  as  blood,"  that 
carried  a  cake  for  a  buckler,  and  babbled  Latin  in  his  cups;  of 
whose  brimstone  visage  "  children  Avere  sore  aferd;" — and  the 
buxom  wife  of  Bath,  the  widow  of  five  husbands,  upon  her 
ambling  nag,  with  her  hat  broad  as  a  buckler,  her  red  stock- 
ings and  sharp  spurs ;— and  the  slender,  choleric  reeve  of  Nor- 
folk, bestriding  his  good  gray  stot;  with  close-shaven  beard*, 
his  hair  cropped  round  his  ears,  long,  lean,  calfless  legs,  and  a 
rusty  blade  by  his  side:— and  the  jolly  Limitour,  with  lisping 
tongue  and  twinkling  eye,  well-beloved  franklins  and  house- 
wives, a  great  promoter  of  marriages  among  young  women, 
known  at  the  taverns  in  every  town,  and  by  every  ' '  hosteler 
and  gay  tapstere."  In  short,  before  I  was  roused  from  my 
reverie  by  the  less  poetical  but  more  substantial  apparition  of  a 
smoking  beef-steak,  I  had  seen  the  whole  cavalcade  issue  forth 
from  the  hostel-gate,  with  the  brawny,  double-jointed,  red- 
haired  miller,  playing  the  bagpipes  before  them,  and  the 
ancient  host  of  the  Tabbard  giving  them  his  farewell  God-send 
to  Canterbury. 

When  I  told  the  Squire  of  the  existence  of  this  legitimate 
descendant  of  the  ancient'  Tabbard  Inn,  his  eyes  absolutely 
glistened  with  delight.  He  determined  to  hunt  it  up  the  very 
first  time  he  visited  London,  and  to  eat  a  dinner  there,  and 
d  rink  a  cup  of  mine  host's  best  wine  in  memory  of  old  Chaucer. 
The  general,  who  happened  to  be  present,  immediately  begged 
to  be  of  the  party ;  for  he  liked  to  encourage  these  long-estab- 
lished houses,  as  they  are  apt  to  have  choice  old  wines. 


POPULAR  SUPERSTITIONS. 


POPULAR  SUPERSTITIONS. 

Farewell  regards  and  fairies, 

Good  housewives  now  may  say; 
For  now  fowle  sluts  in  dairies 

Do  fare  as  well  as  they; 
And  though  they  sweepe  their  hearths  no  lesse 

Than  maids  were  wont  to  doo, 
Yet  who  of  late  for  cleanlinesse 

Finds  sixpence  in  her  shooe?— Bishop  Corbet. 

I  have  mentioned  the  Squire's  fondness  for  the  marvellous, 
and  his  predilection  for  legends  and  romances.  His  library 
contains  a  curious  collection  of  old  works  of  this  kind,  which 
bear  evident  marks  of  having  been  much  read.  In  his  great 
love  for  all  that  is  antiquated,  he  cherishes  popular  supersti- 
tions, and  listens,  with  very  grave  attention,  to  every  tale, 
however  strange ;  so  that,  through  his  countenance,  the  house- 
hold, and,  indeed,  the  whole  neighbourhood,  is  well  stocked 
with  wonderful  stories;  and  if  ever  a  doubt  is  expressed 
of  any  one  of  them,  the  narrator  will  generally  observe,  that 
"the  Squire  thinks  there's  something  in  it." 

The  Hall  of  course  comes  in  for  its  share,  the  common  people 
having  always  a  propensity  to  furnish  a  great  superannuated 
building  of  the  kind  with  supernatural  inhabitants.  The 
gloomy  galleries  of  such  old  family  mansions;  the  stately 
chambers,  adorned  with  grotesque  carvings  and  faded  paint- 
ings; the  sounds  that  vaguely  echo  about  them;  the  moaning 
of  the  wind ;  the  cries  of  rooks  and  ravens  from  the  trees  and 
chimney-tops ;  all  produce  a  state  of  mind  f ovourable  to  super- 
stitious fancies. 

In  one  chamber  of  the  Hall,  just  opposite  a  door  which  open* 
upon  a  dusky  passage,  there  is  a  full-length  portrait  of  a  war- 
rior in  armour ;  when,  on  suddenly  tinning  into  the  passage,  I 
have  caught  a  sight  of  the  portrait,  thrown  into  strong  relief 
by  the  dark  pannelling  against  which  it  hangs,  I  have  more 
:han  once  been  startled,  as  though  it  were  a  figure  advancing 

)wards  me. 

To  superstitious  minds,  therefore,  predisposed  by  the  strange 

id  melancholy  stories  that  arc  connected  with  family  paint- 

igs,  it  needs  but  little  stretch  of  fancy,  on  a  moonlight  night, 
>r  by  the  flickering  light  of  a  candle,  to  set  the  old  pictures  on 


234  BRACKBRITHIE  HALL. 

the  walls  in  motion,  swesping  in  their  robes  and  trains  about 
the  galleries. 

To  tell  the  truth,  the  Squire  confesses  that  he  used  to  take  a 
pleasure  in  his  younger  days  in  setting  marvellous  stories 
afloat,  and  comiecting  them  with  the  lonely  and  peculiar 
places  of  the  neighbourhood.  Whenever  he  read  any  legend 
of  a  striking  nature,  he  endeavoured  to  transplant  it,  and  give 
it  a  local  habitation  among  the  scenes  of  his  boyhood.  Many 
of  these  stories  took  root,  and  he  says  he  is  Often  amused  with 
the  odd  shapes  in  which  they  will  come  back  to  him  in  some 
old  woman's  narrative,  after  they  have  been  circulating  for 
years  among  the  peasantry,  and  undergoing  rustic  additions 
and  amendniehts.  Among  these  may  doubtless  be  numbered 
that  of  the  crusader's  ghost,  which  I  have  mentioned  in  the 
account  of  my  Christmas  visit;  and  another  about  the  hard- 
riding  Squire  of  yore ;  the  family  Niinrod ;  who  is  sometimes 
lizard  in  >t<>rmy  winter  nights,  galloping,  with  hound  and  horn, 
over  a  wild  moor  a  few  miles  distant  from  the  Hall.  This  I 
apprehend  to  have  had  its  origin  in  the  famous  story  of  the 
wild  huntsman,  the  favourite  goblin  in  German  tales;  though, 
by-the-by,  as  I  was  talking  on  the  subject  with  Master  Simon 
the  other  evening  in  the  dark  avenue,  he  hinted  that  he  had 
himself  once  or  twice  heard  odd  sounds  at  night,  very  like  a 
pack  of  hounds  in  cry;  and  that  once,  as  he  was  returning 
rather  late  from  a  limiting  dinner,  he  had  seen  a  strange  figure 
galloping  along  this  same  moor;  but  as  he  was  riding  rather 
fast  at  the  time,  and  in  a  hurry  to  get  home,  he  did  not  stop  to 
ascertain  what  it  Was. 

Popular  superstitions  are  fast  fading  away  in  England,  owing 
to  the  general  diffusion  of  knowledge,  and  the  bustling  inter- 
course kept  up  throughout  the  country;  still  they  have  their 
strong-holds  and  lingering  places,  and  a  retired  neighbourhood 
like  this  is  apt  to  be  one  of  them.  The  parson  tells  me  that  he 
meets  with  many  traditional  beliefs  and  notions  among  the 
common  people,  which  he  has  been  able  to  draw  from  them  in 
the  course  of  familiar  conversation,  though  they  are  rather  shy 
of  avowing  them  to  strangers,  and  particularly  to  "the  gentry," 
who  are  apt  to  iaugh  at  them.  He  says  there  are  several  of  his 
old  parishioners  who  remember  when  the  village  had  its  bar- 
guest,  Or  bar-ghost — a  spirit  supposed  to  belong  to  a  town  or 
village,  and  to  predict  any  impending  misfortune  by  midnight 
shrieks  and  wailings.  The  last  time  it  was  heard  was  just 
before  the  death  of  Mr.  Bracebridge's  father,  who  was  much 


POPULAR  SUPERSTITIONS.  235 

beloved  throughout  the  neighbourhood ;  though  there  are  not 
wanting  some  obstinate  unbelievers,  who  insisted  that  it  was 
nothing  but  the  howling  of  a  watch-dog.  I  have  been  greatly 
delighted,  however,  at  meeting  with  some  traces  of  my  old 
favourite,  Kobin  Goodfellow,  though  under  a  different  appella- 
tion from  any  of  those  by  which  I  have  heretofore  heard  him 
called.  The  parson  assures  me  that  many  of  the  peasantry 
believe  in  household  goblins,  called  Dubbies,  which  live  about 
particular  farms  and  houses,  in  the  same  way  that  Robin  Good- 
fellow  did  of  old.  Sometimes  they  haunt  the  barns  and  out- 
houses, and  now  and  then  will  assist  the  farmer  wonderfully, 
by  getting  in  all  his  hay  or  corn  in  a  single  night.  In  general, 
however,  they  prefer  to  live  within  doors,  and  are  fond  of 
keeping  about  the  great  hearths,  and  basking,  at  night,  after 
the  family  have  gone  to  bed,  by  the  glowing  embers.  When 
put  in  particular  good-humour  by  the  warmth  of  their  lodg- 
ings, and  the  tidiness  of  the  house-maids,  they  will  overcome 
their  natural  laziness,  and  do  a  vast  deal  of  household  work 
before  morning;  churning  the  cream,  brewing  the  beer,  or 
spinning  all  the  good  dame's  flax.  All  this  is  precisely  the 
conduct  of  Robin  Goodfellow,  described  so  charmingly  by 
Milton : 

"  Tells  how  the  drudging  goblin  sweat 
To  earn  his  cream-bowl  duly  set, 
When  in  one  night,  ere  glimpse  of  morn, 
His  shadowy  flail  had  thresh'd  the  corn 
That  ten  day-labourers  could  not  end ; 
Then  lays  him  down  the  lubber-fiend, 
And,  stretch'd  out  all  the  chimney's  length, 
Basks  at  the  fire  his  hairy  strength. 
And  crop-full,  out  of  door  he  flings 
Ere  the  first  cock  his  matin  rings." 

But  beside  these  household  Dubbies,  there  are  others  of  a 
more  gloomy  and  unsocial  nature,  that  keep  about  lonely  barns 
listance  from  any  dwelling-house,  or  about  ruins  and  old 
bridges.  These  are  full  of  mischievous  and  often  malignant 
tricks,  and  are  fond  of  playing  pranks  upon  benighted  travellers. 
There  is  a  story,  among  the  old  people,  of  one  that  haunted  a 
ruined  mill,  just  by  a  bridge  that  crosses  a  small  stream ;  how 
that,  late  one  night,  as  a  traveller  was  passing  on  horseback, 
the  Dubbie  jumped  up  behind  him,  and  grasped  him  so  close 
round  the  body  that  he  had  no  power  to  help  himself,  but  ex- 
pected to  be  squeezed  to  death :  lucidly  his  heels  were  loose, 
with  which  he  plied  the  sides  of  his  steed,  and  was  carried, 


236  BRACEBUWGK  HALL. 

with  the  wonderful  instinct  of  a  traveller's  horse,  straight  to 
the  village  inn.  Had  th<  inn  been  at  any  greater  distance, 
there  is  no  doubt  but  he  would  have  been  strangled  to  death ; 
as  it  was,  the  good  people  were  a  long  time  in  bringing  him  to 
'his  senses,  and  it  was  remarked  that  the  first  sign  he  showed 
of  returning  consciousness  was  to  call  for  a  bottom  of  brandy. 

These  mischievous  Dubbies  bear  much  resemblance  in  their 
natures  and  habits  to  those  sprites  which  Heywood,  in  his 
Heirarchie,  calls  pugs  or  hobgoblins : 

" Their  dwellings  be 

In  comers  of  old  houses  least  frequented 

Or  beneath  stacks  of  wood,  and  these  convented, 

Make  fearful!  noise  in  butteries  and  in  dairies; 

Robin  (ioodfellow  some,  some  eall  them  fairies. 

In  solitarie  rooms  these  uprores  keep, 

And  beate  at  doores,  to  wake  men  from  their  slepe. 

Seeming  to  force  lockes,  he  they  nere  so  strong, 

And  keeping  Christmasse  gambols  all  night  long. 

Pots,  glasses,  trenchers,  dishes,  pannes  and  kettles, 

They  will  make  dance  about  the  shelves  and  settles, 

As  if  about  the  kitchen  tost  am!  cast, 

Yet  in  the  morning  nothing  found  misplac't. 

Others  such  houses  to  their  use  have  fitted, 

In  which  base  murthers  have  been  once  committed. 

Some  have  their  fearful  habitations  taken 

In  desolate  houses,  ruih'd  and  forsaken.'' 

In  the  account  of  our  unfortunate  hawking  expedition,  I 
mentioned  an  instance  of  one  of  these  sprites,  supposed  to 
haunt  the  ruined  grange  that  stands  in  a  lonely  meadow,  and 
has  a  remarkable  echo.  The  parson  informs  me,  also,  that  the 
belief  was  once  very  prevalent,  that  a  household  Dubbie  kept 
about  the  old  farm-house  of  the  Tibbets.  It  has  long  been 
traditional,  he  says,  that  one  of  these  good-natured  goblins  is 
attached  to  the  Tibbets  family,  and  came  with  them  when  they 
moved  into  this  part  of  the  country;  for  it  is  one  of  the  pecu- 
liarities of  these  household  sprites,  that  they  attach  themselves 
to  the  fortunes  of  certain  families,  and  follow  them  in  all  their 
removals. 

There  is  a  large  old-fashioned  fire-place  in  the  farm-house, 
which  affords  fine  quarters  for  a  chimney-corner  sprite  that 
likes  to  he  warm;  especially  as  Ready -Money  Jack  keeps  up 
rousing  fires  in  the  winter-time.  The  old  people  of  the  village 
recollect  many  stories  about  this  goblin,  that  were  current  in 
their  young  days.  It  was  thought  to  have  brought  good  luck 
to  the  house,  and  to  be  the  reason  why  the  Tibbets  were  always 
beforehand  in  the  world,  and  why  their  farm  was  always  in 


POPULAR  SUPERSTITIONS.  237 

better  order,  their  hay  got  in  sooner,  and  their  corn  better 
stacked,  than  that  of  their  neighbours.  The  present  Mrs.  Til* 
bets,  at  the  time  of  her  courtship,  had  a  number  of  these  stories 
told  her  by  the  country  gossips;  and  when  married,  was  a 
little  fearful  about  living  in  a  house  where  such  a  hobgoblin 
was  said  to  haunt :  Jack,  however,  who  has  always  treated  this 
story  with  great  contempt,  assured  her  that  there  was  no  spirit 
kept  about  his  house  that  he  could  not  at  any  time  lay  in  the 
Red  Sea  with  one  nourish  of  his  cudgel.  Still  his  wife  has 
never  got  completely  over  her  notions  on  the  subject,  but  has  a 
horseshoe  nailed  on  the  threshold,  and  keeps  a  branch  of  raun- 
try,  or  mountain  ash,  with  its  red  berries,  suspended  from  one 
of  the  great  beams  in  the  parlour — a  sure  protection  from  all 
evil  spirits. 

These  stories,  however,  as  I  before  observed,  "are  fast  fading 
away,  and  in  another  generation  or  two  will  probably  be  com- 
pletely forgotten.  There  is  something,  however,  about  these 
rural  superstitions,  that  is  extremely  pleasing  to  the  imagina- 
tion; particularly  those  which  relate  to  the  good-humoured 
race  of  household  demons,  and  indeed  to  the  whole  fairy  my- 
thology. The  English  have  given  an  inexplicable  charm  to 
these  superstitions,  by  the  manner  in  which  they  have  asso- 
ciated them  with  whatever  is  most  homefelt  and  delightful  in 
nature.  I  do  not  know  a  more  fascinating  race  of  beings  than 
these  little  fabled  people,  that  haunted  the  southern  sides  of 
hills  and  mountains,  lurked  in  flowers  and  about  fountain-heads, 
glided  through  key-holes  into  ancient  halls,  watched  over 
farm-houses  and  dairies,  danced  on  the  green  by  summer  moon- 
light, and  on  the  kitchen-hearth  in  whiter.  They  seem  to 
accord  with  the  nature  of  English  housekeeping  and  English 
scenery.  I  always  have  them  in  mind,  when  I  see  a  fine  old 
English  mansion,  with  its  wide  hall  and  spacious  kitchen ;  or  a 
venerable  farm-house,  in  which  there  is  so  much  fireside  com- 
fort and  good  housewifery.  There  was  something  of  national 
character  in  their  love  of  order  and  cleanliness ;  in  the  vigilance 
with  which  they  watched  over  the  economy  of  the  kitchen,  and 
the  functions  of  the  servants;  munificently  rewarding,  with 
silver  sixpence  in  shoe,  the  tidy  housemaid,  but  venting  their 
direful  wrath,  in  nudnight  bobs  and  pinches,  upon  the  sluttish 
dairymaid.  I  think  I  can  trace  the  good  effects  of  this  ancient 
fairy  sway  over  household  concerns,  in  the  care  that  prevails 
to  the  present  day  among  English  housemaids,  to  put  their 
kitchens  in  order  before  they  go  to  bed. 


238  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

I  have  said,  too,  that  these  fairy  superstitions  seemed  to  me 
to  accord  with  the  nature  of  English  scenery.  They  suit  these 
small  landscapes,  which  are  divided  by  honeysuckled  hedges 
into  sheltered  fields  and  meadows,  where  the  grass  is  mingled 
with  daisies,  buttercups,  and  harebells.  When  I  first  found 
myself  among  English  scenery,  I  was  continually  reminded  of 
the  sweet  pastoral  images  which  distinguish  their  fairy  my- 
thology ;  and  When  for  the  first  time  a  circle  in  the  grass  was 
p«  >inted  out  to  me  as  one  of  the  rings  where  they  were  formerly  \ 
supposed  to  have  held  their  moonlight  revels,  it  seemed  for  a 
moment  as  if  fairy-land  were  no  longer  a  fable.  Brown,  in  his 
Britannia's  Pastorals,  gives  a  picture  of  the  kind  of  scenery  to 
which  I  allude : 

" A  pleasant  mead 

"Where  fairies  often  did  their  measures  tread; 
Whieli  in  l  ht1  meadows  make  such  circles  green, 
As  if  with  garlands  it  had  crowned  been. 
Within  one  of  these  rounds  was  to  be  seen 
A  hillock  rise,  where  oft  the  fairy  queen 
At  twilight  sat." 

And  there  is  another  picture  of  the  same,  in  a  poem  ascribed  to 
Ben  Jonson. 

"  By  wells  and  rills  in  meadows  green, 
We  nightly  dance  our  heyday  guise, 
And  to  our  fairy  king  and  queen 

We  chant  our  moonlight  minstrelsies1." 

Indeed,  it  seems  to  me,  that  the  older  British  poets,  with  that 
true  feeling  for  nature  which  distinguishes  them,  have  closely 
adhered  to  the  simple  and  familiar  imagery  which  they  found 
in  these  popular  superstitions ;  and  have  thus  given  to  their 
fairy  mythology  those  continual  allusions  to  the  farm-house 
and  the  dairy,  the  green  meadow  and  the  fountain-head,  that 
fill  our  minds  with  the  delightful  associations  of  rural  life.  I 
is  curious  to  observe  how  the  most  beautiful  fictions  have  their 
origin  among  the  rude  and  ignorant.  There  is  an  indescribable 
.^harm  about  the  illusions  with  which  chimerical  ignorance  once 
clothed  every  subject.  These  twilight  views  of  nature  are 
often  more  captivating  than  any  which  are  revealed  by  the 
rays  of  enlightened  philosophy.  The  most  accomplished  and 
poetical  minds,  therefore,  have  been  fain  to  search  back  into 
these  accidental  conceptions  of  what  are  termed  barbarous  ages, 
and  to  draw  from  them  their  finest  imagery  and  machinery. 
If  we  look  through  our  most  admired  poets,  we  shall  find  that 
their  minds  have  been  impregnated  by  these  popular  fancies, 


POPULAR  SUPERSTITIONS.  239 

and  that  i  h<  >se  have  succceeded  best  who  have  adhered  closest  to 
implicity  of  their  rustic  originals.  Such  is  the  case  with 
Bhakspeare  in  his  Midsummer-Night's  Dream,  which  so  minutely 
describes  the  employments  and  amusements  of  fairies,  and  em- 
bodies all  the  notions  concerning  them  which  were  current 
among  the  vulgar.  It  is  thus  that  poetry  in  England  has 
echoed  back  every  rustic  note,  softened  into  perfect  melody:  it 
is  thus  that  it  has  spread  its  charms  over  every -day  lift 
placing  nothing,  taking  things  as  it  found  them,  but  t\ 
them  up  with  its  own  magical  hues,  until  every  green  hill  and 
fountain-head,  every  fresh  meadow,  nay,  every  humble  flower, 
is  full  of  song  and  story. 

I  am  dwelling  too  long,  perhaps,  upon  a  threadbare  subject ; 
yet  it  brings  up  with  it  a  thousand  delicious  recollections  of 
those  happy  days  of  childhood,  when  the  imperfect  knowledge 
I  have  since  obtained  had  not  yet  dawned  upon  my  mind,  and 
when  a  fairy  tale  was  true  history  to  me.  I  have  often  been 
so  transported  by  the  pleasure  of  these  recollections,  as  almost 
to  wish  that  I  had  been  born  in  the  days  when  the  fictions  of 
poetry  were  believed.  Even  now  I  cannot  look  upon  those 
fanciful  creations  of  ignorance  and  credulity,  without  a  lurk- 
ing regret  that  they  have  all  passed  away.  The  experience  of 
my  early  days  tells  me,  that  they  were  sources  of  exquisite  de- 
light ;  and  I  sometimes  question  whether  the  naturalist  who 
can  dissect  the  flowers  of  the  field,  receives  half  the  pleasure 
from  contemplating  them,  that  he  did  who  considered  them 
the  abode  of  elves  and  fairies.  I  feel  convinced  that  the  true 
interests  and  solid  happiness  of  man  are  promoted  by  the 
advancement  of  truth;  yet  I  cannot  but  mourn  over  the  plea- 
sant errors  which  it  has  trampled  down  in  its  progress.  The 
fauns  and  sylphs,  the  household  sprite,  the  moonlight  revel, 
bberon,  Queen  Mab,  and  the  delicious  realms  of  fairy -land,  all 
vanish  before  the  light  of  true  philosophy ;  but  who  does  not 
sometimes  turn  with  distaste  from  the  cold  realities  of  morn- 
ing, and  seek  to  recall  the  sweet  visions  of  the  night? 


240  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 


THE    CULPRIT. 


From  fire,  from  water,  and  all  things  amiss, 
Deliver  the  house  of  an  honest  justice.     The  Widow. 

The  serenity  of  the  Hall  has  been  suddenly  interrupted  by  a 
very  important  occurrence.  In  the  course  of  this  morning  a 
posse  of  villagers  was  seen  trooping  up  the  avenue,  with  boys 
shouting  in  advance.  As  it  drew  near,  we  perceived  Ready- 
Money  Jack  Tibbets  striding  along,  wielding  his  cudgel  in  one 
hand,  and  with  the  other  grasping  the  collar  of  a  tall  fellow. 
whom,  on  still  nearer  approach,  we  recognized  for  the  redoubt- 
able gipsy  hero,  Starlight  Tom.  He  was  now,  however,  com- 
pletely cowed  and  crestfallen,  and  his  courage  seemed  to  have 
quailed  in  the  iron  gripe  of  the  lion-hearted  Jack. 

The  whole  gang  of  gipsy  women  and  children  came  dragging 
in  the  rear;  some  in  tears,  others  making  a  violent  clamour 
about  the  ears  of  old  Ready-Money,  who,  however,  trudged  on 
in  silence  with  his  prey,  heeding  their  abuse  as  little  as  a  hawk 
that  has  pounced  upon  a  barn-door  hero  regards  the  outcries 
and  cacklings  of  Ins  whole  feathered  seraglio. 

He  had  passed  through  the  village  on  his  way  to  the  Hall, 
and  of  course  had  made  a  great  sensation  in  that  most  excita- 
ble place,  where  every  event  is  a  matter  of  gaze  and  gossip. 
The  report  flew  like  wildfire,  that  Starlight  Tom  was  in  custody. 
The  ale-drinkers  forthwith  abandoned  the  tap-room ;  Slingsby's 
school  broke  loose,  and  master  and  boys  swelled  the  tide  that 
came  rolling  at  the  heels  of  old  Ready-Money  and  his  captive. 

The  uproar  increased,  as  they  approached  the  Hall;  it 
aroused  the  whole  garrison  of  dogs,  and  the  crew  of  hangers- 
on.  The  great  mastiff  barked  from  the  dog-house;  the  stag- 
hound,  and  the  grayhound,  and  the  spaniel,  issued  barking 
from  the  hall-door,  and  my  Lady  Lillycraft's  little  dogs 
ramped  and  barked  from  the  parlour  window.  I  remarked, 
however,  that  the  gipsy  dogs  made  no  reply  to  all  the 
menaces  and  insults,  but  crept  close  to  the  gang,  looking  roun 
with  a  guilty,  poaching  air,  and  now  and  then  glancing  up 
dubious  eye  to  their  owners;  which  shows  that  the  mo 
dignity,  even  of  dogs,  may  be  ruined  by  bad  company ! 

When  the  throng  reached  the  front  of  the  house,  they  were 
brought  to  a  halt  by  a  kind  of  advanced  guard,  composed  of 
old  Christy,  the  gamekeeper,  and  two  or  three  servants  of  the 


eu, 
ese 
nd 


THE  CULPRIT.  241 

house,  who  had  been  brought  out  by  the  noise.  The  common 
herd  of  the  village  fell  back  with  respect;  the  boys  were  driven 
back  by  Christy  and  his  compeers;  while  Read y-Money  Jack 
maintained  his  ground  and  his  hold  of  the  prisoner,  and  was 
surrounded  by  the  tailor,  the  schoolmaster,  and  several  other 
dignitaries  of  the  village,  and  by  the  clamorous  brood  of 
gipsies,  who  were  neither  to  be  silenced  nor  intimidated. 

By  this  time  the  whole  household  were  brought  to  the  doors 
and  windows,  and  the  Squire  to  the  portal.  An  audience  was 
demanded  by  Ready-Money  Jack,  who  had  detected  the  prisoner 
in  the  very  act  of  sheep-stealing  on  his  domains,  and  had  borne 
him  off  to  be  examined  before  the  Squire,  who  is  in  the  com- 
mission of  the  peace. 

A  kind  of  tribunal  was  immediately  held  in  the  servants' 
ball,  a  large  chamber,  with  a  stone  floor,  and  a  long  table  in 
the  centre,  at  one  end  of  which,  just  under  an  enormous  clock, 
was  placed  the  Squire's  chair  of  justice,  while  Master  Simon 
took  his  place  at  the  table  as  clerk  of  the  court.  An  attempt 
had  been  made  by  old  Christy  to  keep  out  the  gipsy  gang,  but 
in  vain,  and  they,  with  the  village  worthies,  and  the  house- 
hold, half  filled  the  hall.  The  old  housekeeper  and  the  butler 
were  in  a  panic  at  this  dangerous  irruption.  They  hurried 
away  all  the  valuable  things  and  portable  articles  that  were  at 
hand,  and  even  kept  a  dragon  watch  on  the  gipsies,  lest  they 
Bh<  add  carry  off  the  house  clock,  or  the  deal  table. 

Old  Christy,  and  his  faithful  coadjutor  the  gamekeeper,  acted 
as  constables  to  guard  the  prisoner,  triumphing  in  having  at 
last  got  this  terrible  offender  in  their  clutches.  Indeed,  I  am 
inclined  to  think  the  old  man  bore  some  peevish  recollection  of 
having  been  handled  rather  roughly  by  the  gipsy,  in  the  chance- 
medley  affair  of  May-day. 

Silence  was  now  commanded  by  Master  Simon;  but  it  was 
difficult  to  be  enforced,  in  such  a  motley  assemblage.  There 
a  continual  snarling  and  yelping  of  dogs,  and,  as  fast  as  it 
was  quelled  in  one  corner,  it  broke  out  in  another.  The  poor 
gipsy  curs,  who,  like  errant  thieves,  could  not  hold  up  their 
heads  in  an  honest  house,  were  worried  and  insulted  by  the 
gentlemen  dogs  of  the  establishment,  without  offering  to  make 
resistance;  the  very  curs  of  my  Lady  Lillycraft  bullied  them 
with  impunity. 

The  examination  was  conducted  with  great  mildness  and  in- 
dulgence by  the  Squire,  partly  from  the  kindness  of  his  nature, 
and  partly,  I  suspect,  because  his  heart  yearned  towards  the 


242  BUAOMiBRmOE  HALL. 

culprit,  who  had  found  great  favour  in  his  eyes,  as  I  have 
already  observed,  from  tho  skill  he  had  at  various  times  dis- 
played in  archery,  morris-dancing,  and  other  obsolete  accom- 
plishments. Proofs,  however,  were  too  strong,  Ready-Money 
Jack  told  his  story  in  a  straight-forward,  independent  way, 
nothing  daunted  by  the  presence  in  which  he  found  himself. 
He  had  suffered  from  various  depredations  on  his  sheepfold 
and  poultry-yard,  and  had  at  length  kept  watch,  and  caught 
the  delinquent  in  the  very  act  of  making  off  with  a  sheep  01 
his  shoulders. 

Tibbets  was  repeatedly  interrupted,  in  the  course  of  his  te 
timony,  by  the  culprit's  mother,  a  furious  old  beldame,  wit 
an  insufferable  tongue,  and  who,  in  fact,  was  several  time 
kept,  with  some  difficulty,  from  Hying  at  him  tooth  and  nail. 
The  wife,  too,  of  the  prisoner,  whom  I  am  told  ho  does  not  beat 
above  half-a-dozen  times  a  week,  completely  interested  Lad] 
Lillycraft  in  her  husband's  behalf,  by  her  tears  and  supplic 
tions;  and  several  of  the  other  gij  en  were  awakening 

strong  sympathy  among  the  young  girls  and  maid-servants 
the  back-ground.  The  pretty,  black-eyed  gipsy  girl  whom 
have  mentioned  on  a  former  occasion  as  the  sibyl  that  read  the 
fortunes  of  the  general,  endeavoured  to  wheedle  that  doughty 
warrior  into  their  interests,  and  even  made  some  approaches 
to  her  old  acquaintance,  Master  Simon;  but  was  repelled  ty 
the  latter  with  all  the  dignity  of  office,  having  assumed  a  lool 
of  gravity  and  importance  suitable  to  the  occasion. 

I  was  a  little  surprised,  at  first,  to  find  honest  Slingsby,  the 
schoolmaster,  rather  opposed  to  his  old  crony  Tibbets,  anc 
coming  forward  as  a  kind  of  advocate  for  the  accused.  It 
seems  that  he  had  taken  compassion  on  the  forlorn  fortunes  of 
Starlight  Tom,  and  had  been  trying  his  eloquence  in  his  favour 
the  whole  way  from  the  village,  but  without  effect.  During 
the  examination  of  Ready-Money  Jack,  Slingsby  had  stood  like 
u  dejected  Pity  at  his  side,"  seeking  every  now  and  then,  by  a 
soft  word,  to  soothe  any  exacerbation  of  his  ire,  or  to  qualify 
any  harsh  expression.  He  now  ventured  to  make  a  few  obser- 
vations to  the  Squire,  in  palliation  of  the  delinquent's  offence ; 
but  poor  Slingsby  spoke  more  from  the  heart  than  the  head, 
and  was  evidently  actuated  merely  by  a  general  sympathy  for 
every  poor  devil  in  trouble,  and  a  liberal  toleration  for  all  kinds 
of  vagabond  existence. 

The  ladies,  too,  large  and  small,  with  the  kind-heartedness 
of  the  sex,  were  zealous  on  the  side  of  mercy,  and  interceded 


THE  CULPRIT.  243 

strenuously  with  the  Squire ;  insomuch  that  the  prisoner,  find- 
ing himself  unexpectedly  surrounded  by  active  friends,  once 
more  reared  his  crest,  and  seemed  disposed,  for  a  time,  to  put 
on  the  air  of  injured  innocence.  The  Squire,  however,  with  all 
his  benevolence  of  heart,  and  his  lurking  weakness  towards  the 
prisoner,  was  too  conscientious  to  swerve  from  the  strict  path 
of  justice.  There  was  abundant  concurring  testimony  that 
made  the  proof  of  guilt  incontrovertible,  and  Starlight  Tom's 
I  mittimus  was  made  out  accordingly. 

The  sympathy  of  th  .  ladies  was  now  greater  than  ever;  they 
even  made  some  attempts  to  mollify  the  ire  of  Ready-Money 
Jack ;  but  that  sturdy  potentate  had  been  too  much  incensed 
by  the  repeated  incursions  that  had  been  made  into  his  terri- 
tories by  the  predatory  band  of  Starlight  Tom,  and  he  was 
resolved,  he  said,  to  drive  the  ''varment  reptiles"  out  of  the 
neighbourhood.  To  avoid  all  further  importunities,  as  soon  as 
the  mittimus  was  made  out,  he  girded  up  his  loins,  and  strode 
.  back  to  his  seat  of  empire,  accompanied  by  his  interceding 
friend,  Siingsby,  and  followed  by  a  detachment  of  the  gipsy 
gang,  who  hung  on  his  rear,  assailing  him  with  mingled  pray- 
ers and  execrations. 

The  question  now  was,  how  to  dispose  of  the  prisoner — a 
matter  of  great  moment  hi  this  peaceful  establishment,  where 
so  formidable  a  character  as  Starlight  Tom  was  like  a  hawk  en- 
trapped in  a  dove-cote  As  the  hubbub  and  examination  had 
occupied  a  considerable  time,  it  was  too  late  in  the  day  to  send 
him  to  the  county  prison,  and  that  of  the  village  was  sadly  out 
of  repair,  from  long  want  of  occupation.  Old  Christy,  who 
took  great  interest  in  the  affair,  proposed  that  the  culprit 
should  be  committed  for  the  night  to  an  upper  loft  of  a  kind  of 
tower  in  one  of  the  outhouses,  where  he  and  the  gamekeeper 
would  mount  guard.  After  much  deliberation,  this  measure 
was  adopted;  the  premises  in  question  were  examined  and 
made  secure,  and  Christy  and  his  trusty  ally,  the  one  armed 
with  a  fowling-piece,  the  other  with  an  ancient  blunderbuss, 
turned  out  as  sentries  to  keep  watch  over  this  donjon-keep. 

Such  is  the  momentous  affair  that  has  just  taken  place,  and 
it  is  an  event  of  too  great  moment  in  this  quiet  little  world,  not 
to  turn  it  completely  topsy-turvy.  Labour  is  at  a  stand :  the 
house  has  been  a  scene  of  confusion  the  whole  evening.  It  has 
been  beleagured  by  gipsy  women,  with  their  children  on  their 
backs,  wailing  and  lamenting ;  while  the  old  virago  of  a  mother 
has  cruised  up  and  down  the  lawn  in  front,  shaking  her  head, 


244  BRACEBRIBQE  HALL. 

and  muttering  to  herself,  or  now  and  then  breaking  into  a 
paroxysm  of  rage,  brandishing  her  fist  at  the  Hall,  and  de- 
nouncing ill-luck  upon  Ready-Money  Jack,  and  even  upon  the 
Squire  himself. 

Lady  Lilly  craft  has  given  repeated  audiences  to  the  culprit's 
weeping  wife,  at  the  Hall  door;  and  the  servant  maids  have 
stolen  out,  to  confer  with  the  gipsy  women  under  the  trees. 
As  to  the  little  ladies  of  the  family,  they  are  all  outrageous  on 
Ready-Money  Jack,  whom  they  look  upon  in  the  light  of  a  ty- 
rannical giant  of  fairy  tale.  Phoebe  Wilkins,  contrary  to  her 
usual  nature,  is  the  only  one  that  is  pitiless  in  the  affair.  She 
thinks  Mr.  Tibbets  quite  in  the  right;  and  thinks  the  gipsies 
deserve  to  be  punished  severelv,  for  meddling  with  the  sheep 
of  the  Tibbets's. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  females  of  the  family  evinced  all  the 
provident  kindness  of  the  sex,  ever  ready  to  soothe  and  succour 
the  distressed,  right  or  wrong.  Lady  Lillycraft  has  had  a 
mattress  taken  to  the  outhouse,  and  comforts  and  delicacies  of 
all  kinds  have  been  taken  to  the  prisoner ;  even  the  little  girls 
have  sent  their  cakes  and  sweetmeats;  so  that,  I'll  warrant, 
the  vagabond  has  never  fared  so  well  in  his  life  before.  Old 
Christy,  it  is  true,  looks  upon  every  thing  with  a  wary  eye; 
struts  about  with  his  blunderbuss  with  the  air  of  a  veteran 
campaigner,  and  will  hardly  allow  himself  to  be  spoken  to. 
The  gipsy  women  dare  not  come  within  gun-shot,  and  every- 
tatterdemalion  of  a  boy. has  been  frightened  from  the  park. 
The  old  fellow  is  determined  to  lodge  Starlight  Tom  in  prison 
with  his  own  hands;  and  hopes,  he  says,  to  see  one  of  the 
poaching  crew  made  an  example  of. 

I  doubt,  after  all,  whether  the  worthy  Squire  is  not  the  great- 
est sufferer  in  the  whole  affair.  His  honourable  sense  of  duty 
obliges  him  to  be  rigid,  but  the  overflowing  kindness  of  his 
nature  makes  this  a  grievous  trial  to  him. 

He  is  not  accustomed  to  have  such  demands  upon  his  justice, 
in  his  truly  patriarchal  domain ;  and  it  wounds  his  benevolent 
spirit,  that  while  prosperity  and  happiness  are  flowing  in  thus 
bounteously  upon  him,  he  should  have  to  inflict  misery  upon  a 
fellow-being. 

He  has  been  troubled  and  cast  down  the  whole  evening;  took 
leave  of  the  family,  on  going  to  bed,  with  a  sigh,  instead  of  his 
usu.al  hearty  and  affectionate  tone ;  and  will,  in  all  probability, 
have  a  far  more  sleepless  night  than  his  prisoner.  Indeed,  this 
unlucky  affair  has  cast  a  damp  upon  the  whole  household,  as 


FAMILY  MISFORTUNES.  045 

there  appears  to  be  an  universal  opinion  that  the  unlucky  cul- 
prit will  come  to  the  gallows. 

Morning. — The  clouds  of  last  evening  are  all  blown  over.  A 
load  has  been  taken  from  the  Squire':;  heart,  and  every  face  is 
once  more  in  smiles.  The  gamekeeper  made  his  appearance  at 
an  early  hour,  completely  shamefaced  and  crestfallen.  Star- 
light Tom  had  made  his  escape  in  the  night ;  how  he  had  got 
out  of  the  loft,  no  one  could  tell :  the  Devil,  they  think,  must 
have  assisted  him.  Old  Christy  was  so  mortified  that  he  would 
not  show  his  face,  but  had  shut  himself  up  in  his  stronghold  at 
the  dog-kennel,  and  would  not  be  spoken  with.  What  has  par- 
ticularly relieved  the  Squire,  is,  that  there  is  very  little  likeli- 
hood of  the  culprit's  being  retaken,  having  gone  off  on  one  of 
the  old  gentleman's  best  hunters. 


FAMILY  MISFORTUNES. 

The  night  has  been  unruly;  where  we  lay, 
The  chimneys  were  blown  down.— Macbeth. 

We  have  for  a  day  or  two  past  had  a  flow  of  unruly  weather, 
which  has  intruded  itself  into  this  fair  and  flowery  month, 
and  for  a  time  has  quite  marred  the  beauty  of  the  landscape. 
Last  night,  the  storm  attained  its  crisis ;  the  rain  beat  in  tor- 
rents against  the  casements,  and  the  wind  piped  and  blustered 
about  the  old  Hall  with  quite  a  wintry  vehemence.  The  morn- 
ing, however,  dawned  clear  and  serene ;  the  face.of  the  heavens 
seemed  as  if  newly  washed,  and  the  sun  shone  with  a  brightness 
that  was  undimmed  by  a  single  vapour.  Nothing  over-head 
gave  traces  of  the  recent  storm ;  but  on  looking  from  my  win- 
dow, I  beheld  sad  ravage  among  the  shrubs  and  flowers ;  the 
garden- walks  had  formed  the  channels  for  little  torrents ;  trees 
were  lopped  of  their  branches ;  and  a  small  silver  stream  that 
wound  through  the  park,  and  ran  at  the  bottom  of  the  lawn, 
had  swelled  into  a  turbid  yellow  sheet  of  water. 

In  an  establishment  like  this,  where  the  mansion  is  vast, 
ancient,  and  somewhat  afflicted  with  the  infirmities  of  age,  and 
where  there  are  numerous  and  extensive  dependencies,  a  storm 
is  an  event  of  a  very  grave  nature,  and  brings  in  its  train  a 
multiplicity  of  cares  and  disasters. 

While  the  Squire  was  taking  his  breakfast  in  the  great  hall. 


246  BRACEBR1DQE  HALL. 

he  was  continually  interrupted  by  some  bearer  of  ill-tidings 
from  some  part  or  other  of  his  domains ;  he  appeared  to  me  like 
the  commander  of  a  besieged  city,  after  some  grand  assault, 
receiving  at  his  headquarters  reports  of  damages  sustained  in 
the  various  quarters  of  the  place.  At  one  time  the  house- 
keeper brought  him  intelligence  of  a  chimney  blown  down,  and 
a  desperate  leak  sprung  in  the  roof  over  the  picture  gallery, 
which  threatened  to  obliterate  a  whole  generation  of  his  an- 
cestors. Then  the  steward  came  in  with  a  doleful  story  of 
the  mischief  done  in  the  woodlands ;  while  the  gamekeeper  be- 
moaned the  loss  of  one  of  his  finest  bucks,  whose  bloated  car- 
cass was  seen  floating  along  the  swoln  current  of  the  river. 

When  the  Squire  issued  forth,  he  was  accosted,  before  the 
door,  by  the  old,  paralytic  gardener,  with  a  face  full  of  trouble, 
reporting,  as  I  supposed,  the  devastation  of  his  flower-beds,  and 
the  destruction  of  his  wall-fruit.  I  remarked,  however,  that 
his  intelligence  caused  a  peculiar  expression  of  concern,  not 
only  with  the  Squire  and  Master  Simon,  but  with  the  fair  Julia 
and  Lady  Lilly  craft,  who  happened  to  be  present.  From  a. 
lew  words  which  reached  my  ear,  I  found  there  was  some  tale 
of  domestic  calamity  in  the  case,  and  that  some  unfortunate 
family  had  been  rendered  houseless  by  the  storm.  Many  ejacu- 
lations of  pity  broke  from  the  ladies ;  I  heard  the  expressions  of 
"poor,  helpless  beings,"  and  "unfortunate  little  creatures,1 
several  times  repeated ;  to  which  the  old  gardener  replied  ty 
very  melancholy  shakes  of  the  head. 

I  felt  so  interested,  that  I  coidd  not  help  calling  to  the  gardener, 
as  he  was  retiring,  and  asking  what  unfortunate  family  it  was 
that  had  suffered  so  severely  ?  The  old  man  touched  his  hat, 
and  gazed  at  me  for  an  instant,  as  if  hardly  comprehending  my 
question.  "Family!"  replied  he,  "there  be  no  family  in  the 
case,  your  honour ;  but  here  have  been  sad  mischief  done  in 
the  rookery!" 

I  had  noticed,  the  day  before,  that  the  high  and  gusty  winds 
which  prevailed  had  occasioned  great  disquiet  among  these  airy 
householders ;  their  nests  being  all  filled  with  young,  who  were 
in  danger  of  being  tilted  out  of  their  tree-rocked  cradles.  In- 
deed, the  old  birds  themselves  seemed  to  have  hard  work  to 
maintain  a  foothold ;  some  kept  hovering  and  cawing  in  the 
air  •  or,  if  they  ventured  to  alight,  they  had  to  hold  fast,  flap 
their  wings,  and  spread  their  tails,  and  thus  remain  see-saw- 
ing on  the  topmost  twigs. 

In  the  course  of  the  night,  however,  an  awful  calamity  had 


te 

• 


FAMILY   MISFORTUNES.  947 

taken  place  in  this  most  sage  and  politic  community.  There 
was  a  great  tree,  the  tallest  in  the  grove,  which  seemed  to  have 
been  a  kind  of  court-end  of  the  metropolis,  and  crowded  with 
the  residence  of  those  whom  Master  Simon  considers  the  nobility 
and  gentry.  A  decayed  limb  of  this  tree  had  given  way  with 
the  violence  of  this  storm,  and  had  come  down  with  all  its  air- 
castles. 

One  should  be  well  aware  of  the  humours  of  the  good  Squire 
and  his  household,  to  understand  the  general  concern  expressed 
at  this  disaster.  It  was  quite  a  public  calamity  in  this  rural 
empire,  and  all  seemod  to  feel  for  the  poor  rooks  as  for  fellow- 
citizens  in  distress. 

The  ground  had  been  strewed  with  the  callow  young,  which 
were  now  cherished  in  the  aprons  and  bosoms  of  the  maid-ser- 
vants, and  the  little  ladies  of  the  family.  I  was  pleased  with 
this  touch  of  nature ;  this  feminine  sympathy  in  the  sufferings 
of  the  offspring,  and  the  maternal  anxiety  of  the  parent  birds. 

It  was  interesting,  too,  to  witness  the  general  agitation  and 
distress  that  seemed  to  prevail  throughout  the  feathered  com- 
munity ;  the  common  cause  that  was  made  of  it ;  and  the  inces- 
sant hovering,  and  fluttering,  and  lamenting,  that  took  place 
in  the  whole  rookery.  There  is  a  cord  of  sympathy,  that  runs 
through  the  whole  feathered  race,  as  to  any  misfortunes  of  the 
young ;  and  the  cries  of  a  wounded  bird  in  the  breeding  season 
will  throw  a  whole  grove  in  a  flutter  and  an  alarm.  Indeed, 
why  should  I  confine  it  to  the  feathered  tribe?  Nature  seems 
to  me  to  have  implanted  an  exquisite  sympathy  on  this  subject, 
which  extends  through  all  her  works.  It  is  an  invariable  at- 
tribute of  the  female  heart,  to  melt  at  the  cry  of  early  helpless- 
ness, and  to  take  an  instinctive  interest  in  the  distresses  of  the 
parent  and  its  young.  On  the  present  occasion,  the  ladies  of 
the  family  were  full  of  pity  and  commiseration;  and  I  shall 
never  forget  the  look  that  Lady  Lilly  craft  gave  the  general,  on 
his  observing  that  the  young  birds  would  make  an  excellent 
curry,  or  an  especial  good  rook-pie. 


248  BHALEBmUOE  HALL. 


LOVERS'  TROUBLES. 


The  poor  soul  sat  singing  by  a  sycamore  tree. 

Sing  all  a  green  willow; 
Her  hand  on  her  bosom,  her  head  on  her  knee 

Sing  willow,  wiliow,  willow; 
Sing  all  a  green  willow  must  be  my  garland.— Old  Song. 

The  fair  Julia  having  nearly  recovered  from  the  effects  of 
her  hawking  disaster,  it  begins  to  be  thought  high  time  to 
appoint  a  day  for  the  wedding.  As  every  domestic  event  in 
a  venerable  and  aristocratic  family  connexion  like  this  is  a 
matter  of  moment,  the  fixing  upon  this  important  day  has 
of  course  given  rise  to  much  conference  and  debate. 

Some  slight  difficulties  and  demurs  have  lately  sprung  up, 
originating  in  the  peculiar  humours  that  are  prevalent  at  the 
Hall.  Thus.  1  have  overheard  a  very  solemn  consultation 
between  Lady  Lillycraft,  the  parson,  and  Master  Simon,  as  to 
whether  the  marriage  ought  not  to  be  postponed  until  the 
coimng  month. 

With  all  the  charms  of  the  flowery  month  of  May,  there  is, 
I  find,  an  ancient  prejudice  against  it  as  a  marrying  month. 
An  old  proverb  says,  "To  wed  in  May  is  to  wed  poverty." 
Xow,  as  Lady  Lillycraft  is  very  much  given  to  believe  in  lucky 
and  unlucky  times  and  seasons,  and  indeed  is  very  supersti- 
tious on  all  points  relating  to  the  tender  passion,  this  old  pro- 
verb seems  to  have  taken  great  hold  upon  her  mind.  She 
recollects  two  or  three  instances,  in  her  own  knowledge,  of 
matches  that  took  place  in  this  month,  and-  proved  very  un- 
fortunate. Indeed,  an  own  cousin  of  hers,  who  married  on  a 
May-day,  lost  her  husband  by  a  fall  from  his  horse,  after  they 
had  lived  happily  together  for  twenty  years. 

The  parson  appeared  to  give  great  weight  to  her  ladyship's 
objections,  and  acknowledged  the  existence  of  a  prejudice  of 
the  kind,  not  merely  confined  to  modern  times,  but  prevalent 
likewise  among  the  ancients.  In"  confirmation  of  this,  he 
quoted  a  passage  from  Ovid,  which  had  a  great  effect  on  Lady 
Lillycraft,  being  given  in  a  language  which  she  did  not  under- 
stand. Even  Master  Simon  was  staggered  by  it ;  for  he  listened 
with  a  puzzled  air;  and  then,  shaking  his  head,  sagaciously 
observed,  that  Ovid  was  certainly  a  very  wise  man. 

From  this  sage  conference  I  likewise  gathered  several  other 


LOVERS'   TROUBLES  249 

important  pieces  of  information,  relative  to  weddings ;  such  as 
that,  if  two  were  celebrated  in  the  same  church,  on  the  same 
day.  the  first  would  be  happy,  the  second  unfortunate.  Tf,  on 
going  to  church,  the  bridal  party  should  meet  the  funeral  of  a 
female,  it  was  an  omen  that  the  bride  would  die  first :  if  of  a 
male,  the  bridegroom.  If  the  newly-married  couple  were  to 
dance  together  on  their  wedding-day,  the  wife  would  thence- 
forth  rule  the  roast ;  with  many  other  curious  and  unquestion 
able  facts  of  the  same  nature,  all  which  made  me  ponder  more 
than  ever  upon  the  perils  which  surround  *his  happy  state,  and 
the  thoughtless  ignorance  of  mortals  as  to  the  awful  risks  they 
run  in  venturing  upon  it.  I  abstain,  however,  from  enlarging 
upon  this  topic,  having  no  inclination  to  promote  the  increase 
of  bachelors. 

Notwithstanding  the  due  weight  which  the  Squire  gives  to 
traditional  saws  and  ancient  opinions,  yet  I  am  happj'  to  find 
that  he  makes  a  firm  stand  for  the  credit  of  this  loving  month, 
and  brings  to  his  aid  a  whole  legion  of  poetical  authorities ;  all 
which.  I  presume,  have  been  conclusive  with  the  young  couple, 
as  I  understand  they  are  perfectly  willing  to  marry  in  May, 
and  abide  the  consequences.  In  a  few  days,  therefore,  the 
wedding  is  to  take  place,  and  the  Hall  is  in  a  buzz  of  anticipa- 
tion. The  housekeeper  is  bustling  about  from  morning  till 
night,  with  a  look  full  of  business  and  importance,  having  a 
thousand  arrangements  to  make,  the  Squire  intending  to  keep 
open  house  on  the  occasion ;  and  as  to  the  house-maids,  you 
cannot  look  one  of  them  in  the  face»  but  the  rogue  begins  to 
colour  up  and  simper. 

While,  however,  this  leading  love  affair  is  going  on  with  a 
trail'  millity  quite  inconsistent  with  the  rules  of  romance.  I  can- 
not say  that  the  under-plots  are  equally  propitious.  The 
"opening  bud  of  love"  between  the  general  and  Lad;  Lilly- 
craft  seems  to  have  experienced  some  blight  in  the  course  oi 
this  genial  season.  I  do  not  think  the  general  has  ever  been 
able  to  retrieve  the  ground  he  lost,  when  he  fell  asleep  during 
the  captain's  story.  Indeed.  Master  Simon  thinks  his  case  is 
completely  desperate,  her  ladyship  having  determined  that  he 
is  quite  destitute  of  sentiment. 

The  season  has  been  equally  unpropitious  to  the  lovelorn 
Phoebe  Wilkins.  I  fear  the  reader  will  be  impatient  at  having 
this  humble  amour  so  often  alluded  to ;  but  I  confess  I  am  apt 
to  take  a  great  interest  in  the  love  troubles  of  simple  girls  of 
this  class.    Few  people  have  an  idea  of  the  world  of  care  and 


250  BRACEBR1DGE  HALL. 

perplexity  that  these  poor  damsels  have,  in  managing  the 
affairs  of  the  heart. 

We  talk  and  write  about  the  tender  passion ;  we  give  it  all 
the  colourings  of  sentiment  and  romance,  and  lay  the  scene  of 
its  influence  in  high  life;  but,  after  all,  I  doubt  whether  its 
sway  is  not  more  absolute  among  females  of  an  humbler  sphere. 
How  often,  could  we  but  look  into  the  heart,  should  we  find 
the  sentiment  throbbing  in  all  its  violence  in  the  bosom  of  the 
poor  lady's-maid,  rather  than  in  that  of  the  brilliant  beauty  she 
is  decking  out  for  conquest ;  whose  brain  is  probably  bewildered 
with  beaux,  ball-rooms,  and  wax-light  chandeliers. 

With  these  humble  beings,  love  is  an  honest,  engrossing  con- 
cern. They  have  no  ideas  of  settlements,  establishments,  equi- 
pages, and  pin-money.  The  heart — the  heart,  is  all-in-all  with 
them,  poor  things!  There  is  seldom  one  of  them  but  has  her 
love  cares,  and  love  secrets ;  her  doubts,  and  hopes,  and  fears, 
equal  to  those  of  any  heroine  of  romance,  and  ten  times  as 
sincere.  And  then,  too,  there  is  her  secret  hoard  of  love  docu- 
ments;—the  broken  sixpence,  the  gilded  brooch,  the  lock  of 
hair,  the  unintelligible  love  scrawl,  all  treasured  up  in  her  box 
of  Sunday  finery,  for  private  contemplation. 

How  many  crosses  and  trials  is  she  exposed  to  from  some 
lynx-eyed  dame,  or  staid  old  vestal  of  a  mistress,  who  keeps 
a  dragon  watch  over  her  virtue,  and  scouts  the  lover  from 
the  door!  But  then,  how  sweet  are  the  little  love  scenes, 
snatched  at  distant  intervals  of  holiday,  and  fondly  dwelt  on 
through  many  a  long  day  of  household  labour  and  confine- 
ment! If  in  the  country,  it  is  the  dance  at  the  fair  or  wake, 
the  interview  in  the  church-yard  after  service,  or  the  evening 
stroll  in  the  green  lane.  If  in  town,  it  is  perhaps  merely 
a  stolen  moment  of  delicious  talk  between  the  bars  of  the 
area,  fearful  every  mstant  of  being  seen;  and  then,  how 
lightly  will  the  simple  creature  carol  all  day  afterwards  at  her 
labour ! 

Poor  baggage !  after  all  her  crosses  and  difficulties,  when  sh3 
marries,  what  is  it  but  to  exchange  a  life  of  comparative  ease 
and  comfort,  for  one  of  toil  and  uncertainty?  Perhaps,  too, 
the  lovor  for  whom  in  the  fondness  of  her  nature  she  has  com 
mitted  herself  to  fortune's  freaks,  turns  out  a  worthless  churl, 
the  dissolute,  hard-hearted  husband  of  low  fife ;  who,  taking  to 
the  ale-house,  leaves  her  to  a  cheerless  home,  to  labour,  penury, 
and  child-bearing. 

When  I  see  poor  Phoebe  going  about  with  drooping  eye,  and 


LOVERS'   TROUBLES.  251 

her  head  hanging  <;  all  o'  one  side,"  I  cannot  help  calling  to 
mind  the  pathetic  little  picture  drawn  by  Desdemona : — 

My  mother  had  a  maid,  called  Barbara; 
She  was  in  love;  and  he  she  loved  proved  mad, 
And  did  forsake  her;  she  had  a  song  of  willow. 
An  old  thing  'twas;  but  it  express'd  her  fortune, 
And  she  died  singing  it. 

I  hope,  however,  that  a  better  lot  is  in  reserve  for  Phoebe 
Wilkins,  and  that  she  may  yet  "rule  the  roast, "-in the  ancient 
empire  of  the  Tibbets !  She  is  not  fit  to  battle  with  hard  hearts 
or  hard  times.  She  was,  I  am  told,  the  pet  of  her  poor  mother, 
who  was  proud  of  the  beauty  of  her  child,  and  brought  her  up 
more  tenderly  than  a  village  girl  ought  to  be ;  and  ever  since 
she  has  been  left  an  orphan,  the  good  ladies  at  the  Hall  have 
completed  the  softening  and  spoiling  of  her. 

I  have  recently  observed  her  holding  long  conferences  in  the 
church-yard,  and  up  and  down  one  of  the  lanes  near  the  vil- 
lage, with  Slingsby,  the  schoolmaster.  I  at  first  thought  the 
pedagogue  might  be  touched  with  the  tender  malady  so  preva- 
lent in  these  parts  of  late ;  but  I  did  him  injustice.  Honest 
Slingsby,  it  seems,  was  a  friend  and  crony  of  her  late  father, 
the  parish  clerk;  and  is  on  intimate  terms  with  the  Tibbets 
family.  Prompted,  therefore,  by  his  good-will  towards  all  par- 
ties, and  secretly  instigated,  perhaps,  by  the  managing  dame 
Tibbets.  he  has  undertaken  to  talk  with  Phoebe  upon  the  sub- 
ject. He  gives  her,  however,  but  little  encouragement. 
Slingsby  has  a  formidable  opinion  of  the  aristocratical  feeling  of 
old  Ready-Money,  and  thinks,  if  Phoebe  were  even  to  make  the 
..  matter  up  with  the  son,  she  would  find  the  father  totally  hos- 
tile to  the  match.  The  poor  damsel,  therefore,  is  reduced 
almost  to  despair;  and  Slingsby,  who  is  too  good-natured  not 
to  sympathize  in  her  distress,  has  advised  her  to  give  up  all 
thoughts  of  young  Jack,  and  has  proposed  as  a  substitute  his 
learned  coadjutor,  the  prodigal  son.  He  has  even,  in  the  full- 
ness of  his  heart,  offered  to  give  up  the  school-house  to  them ; 
though  it  would  leave  him  once  more  adrift  in  the  wide  world. 


952  BHACEBUlUidE  HALL. 


THE  HISTORIAN. 

Hermione.  Pray  you  sit  by  ua, 

And  tell"s  a  tale. 

Mam  ilius.  Merry  or  sad  shall't  be! 

Hermione.    As  merry  as  you  will. 

Ma  hi  Hiu  s.  A  sad  tale's  best  for  winter. 

1  have  oue  of  sprites  and  goblins. 

Hermione.  Let's  have  that,  sir. 

— Winter's  Tale. 

As  this  is  a  story-telling  age,  I  have  been  tempted  occasion- 
ally to  give  the  reader  one  of  the  many  tales  that  are  served 
up  with  supper  at  the  Hall.  I  might,  indeed,  have  furnished  a 
series  almost  equal  in  number  to  the  Arabian  Nights ;  but  some 
were  rather  hackneyed  and  tedious;  others  I  did  not  feel  war- 
ranted in  betraying  into  print;  and  many  more  were  of  the 
old  generals  relating,  and  turned  principally  upon  tiger-hunt- 
ing, elephant-riding,  and  Seringapatam ;  enlivened  by  the  won- 
derful deeds  of  Tippoo  Saib,  and  the  excellent  jokes  of  Major 
Pendergast. 

I  had  all  along  maintained  a  quiet  post  at  a  corner  of  the 
table,  where  I  had  been  able  to  indulge  my  humour  undis- 
turbed: listening  attentively  when  the  story  was  very  good, 
and  dozing  a  little  when  it  <was  rather  dull,  which  I  consider 
the  perfection  of  auditorship. 

I  was  roused  the  other  evening  from  a  slight  trance  into 
which  I  had  fallen  during  one  of  the  general's  histories,  by  a 
sudden  call  from  the  Squire  to  furnish  some  entertainment  of 
the  kind  in  my  turn.  Having  been  so  profound  a  listener  to 
others,  I  could  not  in  conscience  refuse;  but  neither  my  mem- 
ory nor  invention  being  ready  to  answer  so  unexpected  a 
demand,  I  begged  leave  to  read  a  manuscript  tale  from  the  pen 
of  my  fellow-countryman,  the  late  Mr.  Diedrich  Knickerbocker, 
the  historian  of  New- York.  As  this  ancient  chronicler  may 
not  be  better  known  to  my  readers  than  he  was  to  the  company 
at  the  Hall,  a  word  or  two  concerning  him  may  not  be  amiss, 
before  proceeding  to  his  manuscript. 

Diedrich  Knickerbocker  was  a  native  of  New- York,  a  descen- 
dant from  one  of  the  ancient  Dutch  families  which  originally 
settled  that  province,  and  remained  there  after  it  was  taken 
possession  of  by  the  English  in  1664.  The  descendants  of  these 
Dutch  families  still  remain  in  villages  and  neighbourhoods  in 


THE  HISTORIAN.  253 

various  parts  of  the  country,  retaining  with  singular  obstinacy, 
the  dresses,  manners,  and  even  language  of  their  ancestors,  and 
forming  a  very  distinct  and  curious  feature  in  the  motley  pop- 
ulation of  the  State.  In  a  hamlet  whose  spire  may  be  seen  from 
New- York,  rising  from  above  the  brow  of  a  hill  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  Hudson,  many  of  the  old  folks,  even  at  the  present 
day,  speak  English  with  an  accent,  and  the  Dominie  preaches 
in  Dutch;  and  so  completely  is  the  hereditary  love  of  quiet  and 
silence  maintained,  that  in  one  of  these  drowsy  villages,  in  the 
middle  of  a  warm  summer's  day,  the  buzzing  of  a  stout  blue- 
bottle fly  will  resound  from  one  end  of  the  place  to  the  other. 

With  the  laudable  hereditary  feeling  thus  kept  up  among 
these  worthy  people,  did  Mr.  Knickerbocker  undertake  to 
ite  a  history  of  his  native  city,  comprising  the  reign  of  its 
three  Dutch  governors  during  the  time  that  it  was  yet  under  the 
domination  of  the  Hogenmogens  of  Holland.  In  the  execution 
of  this  design,  the  little  Dutchman  has  displayed  great  histori- 
cal research,  and  a  wonderful  consciousness  of  the  dignity  of 
his  subject.  His  work,  however,  has  been  so  little  understood, 
as  to  be  pronounced  a  mere  work  of  humour,  satirizing  the  fol- 
lies of  the  times,  both  hi  politics  and  morals,  and  giving  whim- 
sical views  of  human  nature. 

Be  this  as  it  may : — among  the  papers  left  behind  him  were 
several  tales  of  a  lighter  nature,  apparently  thrown  together 
from  materials  which  he  had  gathered  during  his  profound 
researches  for  his  history,  and  which  he  seems  to  have  cast  by 
with  neglect,  as  unworthy  of  publication.  Some  of  these  have 
fallen  into  my  hands,  by  an  accident  which  it  is  needless  at 
present  to  mention;  and  one  of  these  very  stories,  with  its  pre- 
lude in  the  words  of  Mr.  Knickerbocker,  I  undertook  to  read, 
by  way  of  acquitting  myself  of  the  debt  which  I  owed  to  the 
other  story-tellers  at  the  Hall.  I  subjoin  it,  for  such  of  my 
readers  as  are  fond  of  stories.* 


:::  I  find  that  the  tale  of  Rip  Van  Winkle,  given  in  the  Sketch-Book,  has  been  dis* 
covered  by  divers  writers  in  magazines  to  have  been  founded  on  a  little  German 
tradition,  and  the  matter  has  been  revealed  to  the  world  as  it*  it  were  a  fold 
instance  of  plagiarism  marvellously  brought  to  light.  In  a  note  which  follows 
thai  tale,  I  hadaHudedto  the  superstition  on  which  it  was  founded,  and  I  tl 
a  mere  allusion  was  sufficient,  as  the  tradition  was  so  notorious  as  to  ben 
iu  almost  every  collection  of  German  legends.  I  had  seen  it  mj  self  in  three.  1 
could  hardly  have  hoped,  therefore,  in  the  present  age.  when  every  source  of  ghost 
and  goblin  story  is  ransacked,  that  the  origin  of  the  tale  would  escape  discovery. 
In  fact.  I  had  considered  popular  traditions  of  the  kind  as  fair  foundations  for  au- 
thors of  fiction  to  build  upon,  and  made  use  of  the  one  in  question  accordingly.    1 


254  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

THE  HAUNTED  HOUSE. 

FROM  THE  MSS.    OF  THE  LATE  DIEDRICH  KNICKERBOCKER. 

Formerly,  almost  ever}'  place  had  a  house  of  this  kind.  If  a  house  was  seated  on 
tiome  melancholy  place,  or  built  in  some  old  romantic  manner,  or  if  auy  particular 
accident  had  happened  in  it,  such  as  murder,  sudden  death,  or  the  like,  to  be 
sure  that  house  had  a  mark  set  upon  it,  and  was  afterwards  esteemed  the  habita- 
tion of  a  ghost— BOUBNB'S  Antiquities. 

In  the  neighbourhood  of  the  ancient  city  of  the  Manhattoes, 
there  stood,  not  very  many  years  since,  an  old  mansion, 
which,  when  I  was  a  boy,  went  by  the  name  of  the  Haunted 
House.  It  was  one  of  the  very  few  remains  of  the  architecture 
of  the  early  Dutch  settlers,  and  must  have  been  a  house  of 
some  consequence  at  the  time  when  it  was  built.  It  consisted 
of  a  centre  and  two  wings,  the  gable-ends  of  which  were  shaped 
like  stairs.  It  was  built  partly  of  wood,  and  partly  of  small 
Dutch  bricks,  such  as  the  worthy  colonists  brought  with  them 
from  Holland,  before  they  discovered  that  bricks  could  be  man- 
ufactured elsewhere.  The  house  stood  remote  from  the  road, 
in  the  centre  of  a  large  field,  with  an  avenue  of  old  locust  * 
trees  leading  up  to  it,  several  of  which  had  been  shivered  by 
lightning,  and  two  or  three  blown  down.  A  few  apple-trees 
grew  straggling  about  the  field ;  there  were  traces  also  of  what 
had  been  a  kitchen-garden;  'but  the  fences  were  broken  down, 
the  vegetables  had  disappeared,  or  had  grown  wild,  and  turned 
to  little  better  than  weeds,  with  here  and  there  a  ragged  rose- 
bush, or  a  tall  sunflower  shooting  up  from  among  brambles, 
and  hanging  its  head  sorrowfully,  as  if  contemplating  the  Sur- 
rounding desolation.  Part  of  the  roof  of  the  old  house  had 
fallen  in,  the  windows  were  shattered,  the  panels  of  the  doors 
broken,  and  mended  with  rough  boards ;  and  there  were  two 
rusty  weathercocks  at  the  ends  of  the  house,  which  made  a 
great  jingling  and  whistling  as  they  whirled  about,  but  always 
pointed  wrong.  The  appearance  of  the  whole  place  was  forlorn 
and  desolate,  at  the  best  of  times ;  but,  in  unruly  weather,  the 
howling  of  the  wind  about  the  crazy  old  mansion,  the  screech- 
am  not  disposed  to  contest  the  matter,  however,  and  indeed  consider  myself  so  com- 
pletely overpaid  by  the  public  for  my  trivial  performances,  that  I  am  content  to 
submit  to  any  deduction,  which,  in  their  after-thoughts,  they  may  think  proper  to 
make. 

*  Acacias. 


THE  HAUXTED  HOUSE,  255 

ing  of  the  weathercocks,  the  slamming  and  banging  of  a  few 
loose  window-shutters,  had  altogether  so  wild  and  dreary  an 
effect,  that  the  neighbourhood  stood  perfectly  in  awe  of  the 
place,  and  pronounced  it  the  rendezvous  of  hobgoblins.  I 
recollect  the  old  building  well;  for  I  remember  how  many 
times,  when  an  idle,  unlucky  urchin,  I  have  prowled  round  its 
precincts,  with  some  of  my  graceless  companions,  on  holiday 
afternoons,  When  out  on  a  freebooting  cruise  among  the1 
orchards.  There  was  a  tree  standing  near  the  house,  that  bore 
the  most  beautiful  and  tempting  fruit ;  but  then  it  wras  on 
enchanted  ground,  for  the  place  was  so  charmed  by  frightful 
stories  that  we  dreaded  to  approach  it.  Sometimes  we  would 
venture  in  a  body,  and  get  near  the  Hesperian  tree,  keeping  an 
eye  upon  the  old  mansion,  and  darting  fearful  glances  into  its 
shattered  window ;  when,  just  as  we  were  about  to  seize  upon 
our  prize,  an  exclamation  from  some  one  of  the  gang,  or  an 
accidental  noise,  would  throw  us  all  into  a  panic,  and  we  would 
scamper  headlong  from  the  place,  nor  stop  until  we  had  got 
quite  into  the  road.  Then  there  were  sure  to  be  a  host  of  fear- 
ful anecdotes  told  of  strange  cries  and  groans,  or  of  some 
hideous  face  suddenly  seen  staring  out  of  one  of  the  windows. 
By  degrees  we  ceased  to  venture  into  these  lorfely  grounds, 
but  would  stand  at  a  distance  and  throw  stones  at  the  build- 
ing ;  and  there  was  something  fearfully  pleasing  in  the  sound, 
as  they  rattled  along  the  roof,  or  sometimes  struck  some  jing- 
ling fragments  of  glass  out  of  the  windows. 

The  origin  of  tins  house  was  lost  in  the  obscurity  that  covers 
the  early  period  of  the  province,  while  under  the  government  of 
their  Mgh  mightinesses  the  states-general.  Some  reported  it  to 
have  been  a  country  residence  of  Wilhelmus  Kieft,  commonly 
called  the  Testy,  one  of  the  Dutch  governors  of  Xew- Amster- 
dam ;  others  said  that  it  had  been  built  by  a  naval  commander 
who  served  under  Van  Tromp,  and  who,  on  being  disappointed 
of  preferment,  retired  from  the  service  in  disgust,  became  a 
philosopher  through  sheer  spite,  and  brought  over  all  his 
wealth  to  the  province,  that  he  might  live  according  to  his 
humour,  and  despise  the  world.  The  reason  of  its  having 
fallen  to  decay,  was  likewise  a  matter  of  dispute ;  some  said 
that  it  was  in  chancery,  and  had  already  cost  more  than  its 
worth  in  legal  expenses ;  but  the  most  current,  and,  of  course, 
the  most  probable  account,  was  that  it  was  haunted,  and  that 
nobody  could  live  quietly  in  it.  There  can,  in  fact,  be  very 
little  doubt  that  this  last  wa-s  the  case,  there  were  so  many 


256  BHAL'EBRIDGE  HALL. 

corroborating  stories  to  prove  it,— not  an  old  woman  in  the 
neighbourhood  but  could  furnish  at  least  a  score.  There  was  a 
gray-headed  curmudgeon  of  a  negro  that  lived  hard  by,  who 
had  a  whole  budget  of  them  to  tell,  many  of  which  had  happened 
to  himself.  I  recollect  many  a  time  stopping  with  my  school- 
mates, and  getting  him  to  relate  some.  The  old  crone  lived  in 
a  hovel,  in  the  midst  of  a  small  patch  of  potatoes  and  Indian 
corn,  which  his  master  had  given  him  on  setting  him  free. 
He  would  come  to  us,  with  his  hoe  in  his  hand,  and  as  we  sat 
perched,  like  a  row  of  swallows,  on  the  rail  of  the  fence,  in  the 
mellow  twilight  of  a  summer  evening,  he  would  tell  us  such 
fearful  stories,  accompanied  by  such  awful  rollings  of  his 
white  eyes,  that  we  were  almost  afraid  of  our  own  footsteps  as 
we  returned  home  afterwards  in  the  dark. 

Poor  old  Pompey !  many  years  are  past  since  he  died,  and 
went  to  keep  company  with  the  ghosts  he  was  so  fond  of  talk- 
ing about.  He  was  buried  in  a  corner  of  his  own  little  potato 
patch;  the  plough  soon  passed  over  his  grave,  and  levelled  it 
with  the  rest  of  the  field,  and  nobody  thought  any  more  of  the 
gray -headed  negro.  By  a  singular  chance,  I  was  strolling  in  that 
neighbourhood  several  years  afterwards,  when  I  had  grown 
up  to  be  a  young  man,  and  I  found  a  knot  of  gossips  speculating 
on  a  skull  which  had  just  been  turned  up  by  a  ploughshare. 
They  of  course  determined  it  to  be  the  remains  of  some  one  that 
had  been  murdered,  and  they  had  raked  up  with  it  some  of 
the  traditionary  tales  of  the  haunted  house.  I  knew  it  at  once 
to  be  the  relic  of  poor  Ponipey ,  but  I  held  my  tongue ;  for  I 
am  too  considerate  of  other  people's  enjoyment,  ever  to  mar  a 
story  of  a  ghost  or  a  murder.  I  took  care,  however,  to  see  the 
bones  of  my  old  friend  once  more  buried  in  a  place  where  they 
were  not  likely  to  be  disturbed.  As  I  sat  on  the  turf  and 
watched  the  interment,  I  fell  into  a  long  conversation  with  an 
old  gentleman  of  the  neighbourhood,  John  Josse  Vandermoere, 
a  pleasant  gossiping  man,  whose  whole  life  was  spent  in  hear- 
ing and  telling  the  news  of  the  province.  He  recollected  old 
Pompey,  and  his  stories  about  the  Haunted  House ;  but  he  as- 
sured me  he  could  give  me  one  still  more  strange  than  any  that 
Pompey  had  related :  and  on  my  expressing  a  great  curiosity 
to  hear  it,  he  sat  down  beside  me  on  the  turf,  and  told  the 
following  tale.  I  have  endeavoured  to  give  it  as  nearly  as 
possible  in  his  words ;  but  it  is  now  many  years  since,  and  I 
am  grown  old,  and  my  memory  is  not  over-good.  I  cannot 
therefore  vouch  for  the  language,  but  I  am  always  scrupulous 
as  to  facts.  D.  K. 


DOLFE  HEYLKjcER.  257 


DOLPH  HEYLIGER. 

'•  I  take  the  town  of  Concord,  where  I  dwell, 
All  Kilborn  be  my  witness,  if  I  were  not 
Begot  in  bashfulness,  brought  up  in  shamefacedness. 
Let  'un  bring  a  dog  but  to  my  vace  that  can 
Zay  I  have  beat  'un,  and  without  a  vault; 
Or  but  a  cat  will  swear  upon  a  book, 
I  have  as  much  as  zet  a  vire  her  tail, 
And  I'll  give  nun  or  her  a  crown  for  'mends."— Tale  of  a  Tub. 

In  the  early  time  of  the  province  of  New-York,  while  it 
groaned  under  the  tyranny  of  the  English  governor,  Lord 
Cornbury,  who  carried  his  cruelties  towards  the  Dutch  inhabi- 
tants so  far  as  to  allow  no  Dominie,  or  schoolmaster,  to  officiate 
in  their  language,  without  his  special  license ;  about  tins  time, 
there  lived  in  the  jolly  little  old  city  of  the  Manhattocs,  a  kind 
motherly  dame,  known  by  the  name  of  Dame  Heyliger.  She 
was  the  widow  of  a  Dutch  sea-captain,  who  died  suddenly  of  a 
fever,  in  consequence  of  working  too  hard,  and  eating  too 
heartily,  at  the  time  when  all  the  inhabitants  turned  out  in  a 
panic,  to  fortify  the  place  against  the  invasion  of  a  small 
French  privateer.*  He  left  her  with  very  little  money,  and  one 
infant  son,  the  only  survivor  of  several  children.  The  good 
woman  had  need  of  much  management,  to  make  both  ends 
meet,  and  keep  up  a  decent  appearance.  However,  as  her  hus- 
band had  fallen  a  victim  to  his  zeal  for  the  public  safety,  it 
was  universally  agreed  that  "  something  ought  to  be  done  for 
the  widow;"  and  on  the  hopes  of  this  "something"  she  lived 
tolerably  for  some  years ;  in  the  meantime,  every  body  pitied 
and  spoke  well  of  her ;  and  that  helped  along. 

She  lived  in  a  small  house,  in  a  small  street,  called  Garden- 
street,  very  probably  from  a  garden  which  may  have  flourished 
there  some  time  or  other.  As  her  necessities  every  year  grew 
greater,  and  the  talk  of  the  public  about  doing  ' '  something  for 
her"  grew  less,  she  had  to  cast  about  for  some  mode  of  doing 
something  for  herself,  by  way  of  helping  out  her  slender  means, 
and  maintaining  her  independence,  of  winch  she  was  somewhat 
tenacious. 

Living  in  a  mercantile  town,  she  had  caught  something  of 
the  spirit,  and  determined  to  venture  a  little  in  the  great  lot- 


1705. 


258  BRACKF^IDGE  HALL. 

tery  of  commerce.  On  a  sudden,  therefore,  to  the  great  sur- 
prise of  the  street,  there  appeared  at  her  window  a  grand  array 
of  gingerbread  kings  and  queens,  with  their  arms  stuck 
a-kimbo,  after  the  invariable  royal  manner.  There  were  also 
several  broken  tumblers,  some  filled  with  sugar-plums,  some 
with  marbles;  there  were,  moreover,  cakes  of  various  kinds, 
and  barley  sugar,  and  Holland  dolls,  and  wooden  horses,  with 
here  and  there  gilt-covered  picture-books,  and  now  and  then  a 
skein  of  thread,  or  a  dangling  pound  of  candles.  At  the  door 
of  the  house  sat  the  good  old  dame's  cat,  a  decent  demure-look- 
ing personage,  that  seemed  to  scan  every  body  that  passed,  to 
criticise  their  dress,  and  now  and  then  to  stretch  her  neck, 
and  look  out  with  sudden  curiosity,  to  see  what  was  going  on 
at  the  other  end  of  the  street;  but  if  by  chance  any  idle  vaga- 
bond dog  came  by,  and  offered  to  be  uncivil — hoity-toity !— how 
she  would  bristle  up,  and  growl,  and  spit,  and  strike  out  her 
paws !  she  was  as  indignant  as  ever  was  an  ancient  and  ugly 
spinster,  on  the  approach  of  some  graceless  profligate. 

But  though  the  good  woman  had  to  come  down  to  these 
humble  means  of  subsistence,  yet  she  still  kept  up  a  feeling  of 
family  pride,  having  descended  from  the  Vanderspiegels,  of 
Amsterdam ;  and  she  had  the  family  arms  painted  and  framed, 
and  hung  over  her  mantel-piece.  She  was,  in  truth,  much  re- 
spected by  all  the  poorer  people  of  the  place ;  her  house  was 
quite  a  resort  of  the  old  wives  of  the  neighbourhood ;  they  would 
drop  in  there  of  a  winter's  afternoon,  as  she  sat  knitting  on 
"one  side  of  her  fire-place,  her  cat  purring  on  the  other,  and  the 
tea-kettle  singing  before  it ;  and  they  would  gossip  with  her 
until  late  in  the  evening.  There  was  always  an  arm-chair  for 
Peter  de  Groodt,  sometimes  called  Long  Peter,  and  sometimes 
Peter  Longlegs,  the  clerk  and  sexton  of  the  little  Lutheran 
church,  who  was  her  great  crony,  and  indeed  the  oracle  of  her 
fire-side.  Nay,  the  Dominie  himself  did  not  disdain,  now  and 
then,  to  step  in,  converse  about  the  state  of  her  mind,  and  take 
a  glass  of  her  special  good  cherry-brandy.  Indeed,  he  never 
failed  to  call  on  new-year's  day,  and  wish  her  a  happy  new 
year ;  and  the  good  dame,  who  was  a  little  vain  on  some  points, 
always  piqued  herself  on  giving  him  as  large  a  cake  as  any  one 
in  town. 

I  have  said  that  she  had  one  son.  He  was  the  child  of  her 
old  age ;  but  could  hardly  be  called  the  comfort — for,  of  all  un- 
lucky urchins,  Dolph  Heyliger  was  the  most  mischievous. 
Not  that  the  whipster  was  really  vicious ;  he  was  only  full  of 


DOLPH  HEYLIGER.  250 

fun  and  frolic,  and  had  that  daring,  gamesome  spirit,  which  is 
extolled  in  a  rich  man's  child,  but  execrated  in  a  poor  man's. 
He  was  continually  getting  into  scrapes:  his  mother  was  in- 
cessantly harassed  with  complaints  of  some  waggish  pranks 
which  he  had  played  off ;  bills  were  sent  in  for  windows  that  he 
had  broken ;  in  a  word,  he  had  not  coached  his  fourteenth  year 
before  he  was  pronounced,  by  all  the  neighbourhood,  to  be  a 
''wicked  dog,  the  wickedest  dog  in  the  street!"  Nay,  one  old 
gentleman,  in  a  claret-coloured  coat,  with  a  tliin  red  face,  and 
ferret  eyes,  went  so  far  as  to  assure  Dame  Heyliger,  that  her 
son  would,  one  day  or  other,  come  to  the  gallows ! 

Yet,  notwithstanding  all  this,  the  poor  old  soul  loved  her 
boy.  It  seemed  as  though  she  loved  him  the  better,  the  worse 
he  behaved ;  and  that  he  grew  more  in  her  favour,  the  more  he 
grew  out  of  favour  with  the  world.  Mothers  are  foolish,  fond- 
hearted  beings ;  there's  no  reasoning  them  out  of  their  dotage ; 
and,  indeed,  this  poor  woman's  child  was  all  that  was  left  to 
love  her  in  this  world ; — so  we  must  not  think  it  hard  that  she 
turned  a  deaf  ear  to  her  good  friends,  who  sought  to  prove  to 
her  that  Dolph  would  come  to  a  halter. 

To  do  the  varlet  justice,  too,  he  was  strongly  attached  to  his 
parent.  He  would  not  willingly  have  given  her  pain  on  any 
account ;  and  when  he  had  been  doing  wrong,  it  was  but  for 
him  to  catch  his  poor  mother's  eye  fixed  wistfully  and  sorrow- 
fully upon  him,  to  fill  his  heart  with  bitterness  and  contrition. 
But  he  was  a  heedless  youngster,  and  could  not,  for  the  life  of 
him,  resist  any  new  temptation  to  fun  and  mischief.  Though 
quick  at  his  learning,  whenever  he  could  be  brought  to  apply 
himself,  yet  he  was  always  prone  to  be  led  away  by  idle  com- 
pany, and  would  play  truant  to  hunt  after  birds'-nests,  to  rob 
orchards,  or  to  swim  in  the  Hudson. 

In  this  way  he  grew  up,  a  tall,  lubberly  boy;  and  his  mother 
began  to  be  greatly  perplexed  what  to  do  with  him,  or  how  to 
put  him  in  a  way  to  do  for  himself;  for  he  had  acquired  such 
an  unlucky  reputation,  that  no  one  seemed  willing  to  employ 
him. 

Many  were  the  consultations  that  she  held  with  Peter  de 
Groodt,  the  clerk  and  sexton,  who  was  her  prime  counsellor. 
Peter  was  as  much  perplexed  as  herself,  for  he  had  no  great 
opinion  of  the  boy,  and  thought  he  would  never  come  to  good. 
He  at  one  time  advised  her  to  send  him  to  sea— a  piece  of  advice 
only  given  in  the  most  desperate  cases;  but  Dame  Heyliger 
would  not  listen  to  such  an  idea ;  she  could  not  think  of  letting 


260  BRACEBBIDQE  HALL. 

Dolph  go  out  of  her  sight.  She  was  sitting  one  day  knitting 
by  her  fireside,  in  great  perplexity,  when  the  sexton  entered 
with  an  air  of  unusual  vivacity  and  briskness.  He  had  just 
come  from  a  funeral.  It  had  been  that  of  a  boy  of  Dolph's 
years,  who  had  been  apprentice  to  a  famous  German  doctor, 
and  had  died  of  a  consumption.  It  is  true,  there  had  been  a 
whisper  that  the  deceased  had  been  brought  to  his  end  by  being 
made  the  subject  of  the  doctor's  experiments,  on  which  he  was 
apt  to  try  the  effects  of  a  new  compound,  or  a  quieting  draught. 
This,  however,  it  is  likely,  was  a  mere  scandal;  at  any  rate, 
Peter  de  Groodt  did  not  think  it  worth  mentioning ;  though, 
had  we  time  to  philosophize,  it  would  be  a  curious  matter  for 
speculation,  why  a  doctor's  family  is  apt  to  be  so  lean  and 
cadaverous,  and  a  butcher's  so  jolly  and  rubicund. 

Peter  de  Groodt,  as  I  said  before,  entered  the  house  of  Dame 
Heyliger,  with  unusual  alacrity.  He  was  full  of  a  bright  idea 
that  had  popped  into  his  head  at  the  funeral,  and  over  which 
he  had  chuckled  as  be  shovelled  the  earth  into  the  grave  of  the 
doctor's  disciple.  It  had  occurred  to  him,  that,  as  the  situation 
of  the  deceased  was  vacant  at  the  doctor's,  it  would  be  the  very 
place  for  Dolph.  The  boy  had  parts,  and  could  pound  a  pestle 
and  run  an  errand  with  any  boy  in  the  town— and  what  more 
was  wanted  in  a  student? 

The  suggestion  of  the  sage  Peter  was  a  vision  of  glory  to  the 
mother.  She  already  saw  Dolph,  in  her  mind's  eye,  with  a 
cane  at  his  nose,  a  knocker  at  his  door,  and  an  M.  D.  at  the  end 
of  his  name— one  of  the  established  dignitaries  of  the  town. 

The  matter,  once  undertaken,  was  soon  effected ;  the  sexton 
had  some  influence  with  the  doctor,  they  having  had  much 
dealing  together  in  the  way  of  their  separate  professions;  and 
the  very  next  morning  he  called  and  conducted  the  urchin, 
clad  in  his  Sunday  clothes,  to  undergo  the  inspection  of  Dr. 
Karl  Lodovick  Knipperhausen. 

They  found  the  doctor  seated  in  an  elbow-chair,  in  one  corner 
of  his  study,  or  laboratory,  with  a  large  volume,  in  Germa 
print,  before  him.    He  was  a  short,  fat  man,  with  a  dark, 
square  face,  rendered  more  dark  by  a  black  velvet  cap.    Hi 
had  a  little,  knobbed  nose,  not  unlike  the  ace  of  spades,  with 
pair  of  spectacles  gleaming  on  each  side  *of  his  dusky  coun 
nance,  like  a  couple  of  bow- windows. 

Dolph  felt  struck  with  awe,  on  entering  into  the  presence  o 
this  learned  man ;  and  gazed  about  him  with  boyish  wonder  a 
the  furniture  of  this  chamber  of  knowledge,  which  appeared 


DOLPF  HEYLIGER.  2fi | 

to  him  almost  as  the  den  A  a  magician.  In  the  centre  stood  a 
claw-footed  table,  with  pestle  and  mortar,  phials  and  gallipots, 
and  a  pair  of  small,  burnished  scales.  At  one  end  was  a  heavy 
clothes-press,  turned  into  a  receptacle  for  drugs  and  compounds ; 
against  which  himg  the  doctor's  hat  and  cloak,  and  gold-headed 
cane,  and  on  the  top  grinned  a  human  skull.  Along  the  mantel- 
piece were  glass  vessels,  in  which  were  snakes  and  lizards,  and 
a  human  foetus  preserved  in  spirits.  A  closet,  the  doors  of 
which  were  taken  off,  contained  three  whole  shelves  of  books, 
and  some,  too,  of  mighty  folio  dimensions— a  collection,  the 
like  of  which  Dolph  had  never  before  beheld.  As,  however, 
the  library  did  not  take  up  the  whole  of  the  closet,  the  doctor  s 
thrifty  housekeeper  had  occupied  the  rest  with  pots  of  pickles 
and  preserves;  and  had  hung  about  the  room,  among  awful 
implements  of  the  healing  art,  strings  of  red  pepper  and  cor- 
pulent cucumbers,  carefully  preserved  for  seed. 

Peter  de  Groodt,  and  his  protege,  were  received  with  great 
gravity  and  stateliness  by  the  doctor,  who  was  a  very  wise, 
dignified  little  man,  and  never  smiled.  He  surveyed  Doiph 
from  head  to  foot,  above,  and  under,  and  through  Ins  spectacles ; 
and  the  poor  lad's  heart  quailed  as  these  great  glasses  glared  on 
him  like  two  full  moons.  The  doctor  heard  all  that  Peter  de 
Groodt  had  to  say  in  favour  of  the  youthful  candidate ;  and 
then,  wetting  his  thumb  with  the  end  of  his  tongue,  he  began 
deliberately  to  turn  over  page  after  page  of  the  great  black 
volume  before  him.  At  length,  after  many  hums  and  haws, 
and  strokings  of  the  chin,  and  all  that  hesitation  and  delibera- 
tion with  which  a  wise  man  proceeds  to  do  what  he  intended  to 
do  from  the  very  first,  the  doctor  agreed  to  take  the  lad  as  a 
disciple ;  to  give  him  bed,  board,  and  clothing,  and  to  instruct 
him  in  the  healing  art ;  in  return  for  which,  he  was  to  have  his 
services  until  his  twenty-first  year. 

Behold,  then,  our  hero,  all  at  once  transformed  from  an 
unlucky  urchin,  running  wild  about  the  streets,  to  a  student 
of  medicine,  diligently  pounding  a  pestle,  under  the  auspices  of 
the  learned  Doctor  Karl  Lodovick  Knipperhausen.  It  was  a 
happy  transition  for  his  fond  old  mother.  She  was  delighted 
with  the  idea  of  her  boy's  being  brought  up  worthy  of  his 
ancestors ;  and  anticipated  the  day  when  he  would  be  able  to 
hold  up  his  head  with  the  lawyer,  that  lived  in  the  large  house 
opposite :  or,  peradventure,  with  the  Dominie  himself. 

Doctor  Knipperhausen  was  a  native  of  the  Palatinate  of  Ger- 
man}- ;  from  whence,  in  company  with  many  of  his  countrymen, 


262  BRACEBRJDGE  HALL. 

he  had  taken  refuge  in  England,  on  account  of  religious  perse- 
cution. He  was  one  of  nearly  three  thousand  Palatines,  who 
came  over  from  England  in  1710,  under  the  protection  of 
Governor  Hunter.  Where  the  doctor  had  studied,  how  he  had 
acquired  his  medical  knowledge,  and  where  he  had  received 
his  diploma,  it  is  hard  at  present  to  say,  for  nobody  kn^w  at 
the  time :  yet  it  is  certain  that  his  profound  skill  and  abstruse 
knowledge  were  the  talk  and  wonder  of  the  common  people, 
far  and  near. 

His  practice  was  totally  d;nV:ent  from  that  of  any  other 
physician;  consisting  in  mysterious  compounds,  known  only  to 
himself,  in  the  preparing  and  administering  of  which,  it  was 
said,  he  always  consulted  the  stars.  So  high  an  opinion  was 
entertained  of  his  skill,  particularly  by  the  German  and  Dutch 
inhabitants,  that  they  always  resorted  to  him  in  desperate 
is  one  of  those  infallible  doctors,  that  are  always 
effecting  sudden  and  surprising  cures,  when  the  patient  has 
been  given  up  by  all  the  regular  physicians;  unless,  as  is 
shrewdly  observed,  the  case  has  been  lelt  too  long  before  it 
was  put  into  their  hands.  The  doctor's  library  was  the  talk 
and  marvel  of  the  neighbourhood,  I  might  almost  say  of  the 
entire  burgh.  The  good  people  looked  with  reverence  at  a  man 
that  had  read  three  whole  shelves  full  of  books,  and  some  of 
them,  too,  as  large  as  a  family  Bible.  There  were  many  dis- 
putes among  the  members  of  the  little  Lutheran  church,  as  to 
which  was  the  wiser  man,  the  doctor  or  the  Dominie.  Some 
of  his  admirers  even  went  so  far  as  to  say,  that  he  knew  more 
than  the  governor  himself — in  a  word,  it  was  thought  thatv 
there  was  no  end  to  his  knowledge ! 

No  sooner  was  Dolph  received  into  the  doctor's  family,  than 
he  was  put  in  possession  of  the  lodging  of  his  predecessor.  It 
was  a  garret-room  of  a  steep-roofed  Dutch  house,  where  the 
rain  patted  on  the  shingles,  and  the  lightning  gleamed,  and  the 
wind  piped  through  the  crannies  in  stormy  weather;  and 
where  whole  troops  of  hungry  rats,  like  Don  Cossacks,  galloped 
about  in  defiance  of  traps  and  ratsbane. 

He  was  soon  up  to  his  ears  in  medical  studies,  being  employed, 
morning,  noon,  and  night,  in  rolling  pills,  filtering  tinctures, 
or  pounding  the  pestle  and  mortar,  in  one  corner  of  the  labora- 
tory :  while  the  doctor  would  take  his  seat  in  another  corner, 
when  he  had  nothing  else  to  do,  or  expected  visitors,  and, 
arrayed  in  his  morning-gown  and  velvet  cap,  would  pore  over 
the  contents  of  some  folio  volume.    It  is  true,  that  the  regular 


DOLPH  EEYLIOER  26:* 

thumping  of  Dolph's  pestle,  or,  perhaps,  the  drowsy  buzzing  of 
the  summer  flies,  would  now  and  then  lull  the  little  man  into  a 
slumber;  but  then  his  spectacles  were  always  wide  awake,  and 
studiously  regarding  the  book. 

There  was  another  personage  in  the  house,  however,  to  whom 
Dolph  was  obliged  to  pay  allegiance.  Though  a  bachelor,  and 
a  man  of  such  great  dignity  and  importance,  yet  the  doctor 
was.  like  many  other  wise  men,  subject  to  petticoat  govern- 
ment. He  was  completely  under  the  sway  of  his  housekeeper ; 
a  spare,  busy,  fretting  housewife,  in  a  little,  round,  quilted, 
German  cap.  with  a  huge  bunch  of  keys  jingling  at  the  girdle 
of  an  exceedingly  long  waist.  Frau  Use  (or  Frow  Ilsy,  as  it 
was  pronounced)  had  accompanied  him  in  his  various  migra- 
tions from  Germany  to  England,  and  from  England  to  the 
province:  managing  his  establishment  and  himself  too:  ruling 
him.  it  is  true,  with  a  gentle  hand,  but  carrying  a  high  hand 
with  all  the  world  beside.  How  she  had  acquired  such  ascen- 
dency. I  do  not  pretend  to  say.  People,  it  is  true,  did  talk- 
but  have  not  people  been  prone  to  talk  ever  since  the  world 
began  \  Who  can  tell  how  women  generally  contrive  to  get  the 
upper  hand?  A  husband,  it  is  true,  may  now  and  then  be 
master  in  his  own  house ;  but  who  ever  knew  a  bachelor  that 
was  not  managed  by  his  housekeeper  \ 

Indeed.  Frau  Ilsy's  power  was  not  confined  to  the  doctor's 
household.  She  was  one  of  those  prying  gossips  that  know 
every  one's  business  better  than  they  do  themselves ;  and  whose 
all-soeing  eyes,  and  all-telling  tongues,  are  terrors  throughout 
a  neighbourhood. 

N<  >  hing  i  )f  any  moment  transpired  in  the  world  of  scandal  of 
this  little  burgh,  but  it  was  known  to  Frau  Ilsy.  She  had  her 
crew  of  cronies,  that  were  perpetually  hurrying  to  her  little 
parlour,  with  some  precious  bit  of  news ;  nay.  she  would  some- 
times discuss  a  whole  volume  of  secret  history,  as  she  held  the 
street-door  ajar,  and  gossiped  with  one  of  these  garrulous 
cronies  in  the  very  teeth  of  a  December  blast. 

Between  the  doctor  and  the  housekeeper,  it  may  easily  be 
supposed  that  Dolph  had  a  busy  life  of  it.  As  Frau  Ilsy  kept 
the  keys,  and  literally  ruled  the  roast,  it  was  starvation  to 
offend  her.  though  he  found  the  study  of  her  temper  more  per- 
plexing even  than  that  of  medicine.  When  not  busy  in  the 
laboratory,  she  kept  him  running  hither  and  thither  on  her 
errands;  and  on  Sundays  he  was  obliged  to  accompany  her  to 
and  from  church,  and  carry  her  Bible.     Many  a  time  has  the 


964  BBACEBRIDGE  TTALT, 

poor  varlet  stood  shivering  ana  blowing  his  fingers,  or  holding 
his  frost-bitten  nose,  in  the  church-yard,  while  Ilsy  and  her 
cronies  were  huddled  together,  wagging  their  heads,  and  tear- 
ing some  unlucky  character  to  pieces. 

With  all  his  advantages,  however,  Dolph  made  very  slow 
progress  in  his  art.  This  was  no  fault  of  the  doctor's,  certainly, 
for  he  took  unwearied  pains  with  the  lad,  keeping  him  close  to 
the  pestle  and  mortar,  or  on  the  trot  about  town  with  phials 
and  pill-boxes :  and  if  he  ever  nagged  in  his  industry,  which  he 
was  rather  apt  to  do,  the  doctor  would  fly  into  a  passion,  and 
ask  him  if  he  ever  expected  to  learn  his  profession,  unless  he 
applied  himself  closer  to  the  study.  The  fact  is,  he  still  retained 
the  fondness  for  sport  and  mischief  that  had  marked  his  child- 
hood; the  habit,  indeed,  had  strengthened  with  his  years,  and 
gained  force  from  being  thwarted  and  constrained.  He  daily 
grew  more  and  more  untraceable,  and  lost  favour  in  the  eyes 
both  of  the  doctor  and  the  housekeeper. 

In  the  meantime  the  doctor  went  on,  waxing  wealthy  and 
renowned.  He  was  famous  for  his  skill  in  managing  cases  not 
laid  down  in  the  books.  He  had  cured  several  old  women  and 
young  girls  of  witchcraft;  a  terrible  complaint,  nearly  as 
prevalent  in  the  province  in  those  days  as  hydrophobia  is  at 
present.  He  had  even  restored  one  strapping  country  girl  to 
perfect  health,  who  had  gone  so  far  as  to  vomit  crooked  pins 
and  needles;  which  is  considered  a  desperate  stage  of  the 
malady.  It  was  whispered,  also,  that  he  was  possessed  of  the 
art  of  preparing  love-powders ;  and  many  applications  had  he 
in  consequence  from  love-sick  patients  of  both  sexes.  But  all 
these  cases  formed  the  mysterious  part  of  his  practice,  in  which, 
according  to  the  cant  phrase,  "  secrecy  and  honour  might  be 
depended  on.''  Dolph,  therefore,  was  obliged  to  turn  out  of 
the  study  whenever  such  consultations  occurred,  though  it  is 
said  he  learnt  more  of  the  secrets  of  the  art  at  the  key-hole, 
than  by  all  the  rest  of  his  studies  put  together. 

As  the  doctor  increased  in  wealth,  he  began  to  extend  his 
possessions,  and  to  look  forward,  like  other  great  men,  to  the 
time  when  he  should  retire  to  the  repose  of  a  country-seat.  For 
this  purpose  he  had  purchased  a  farm,  or,  as  the  Dutch  settlers 
called  it,  a  bowerie,  sl  few  miles  from  town.  It  had  been  the 
residence  of  a  wealthy  family,  that  had  returned  some  time 
since  to  Holland.  A  large  mansion-house  stood  in  the  centre  of 
it,  very  much  out  of  repair,  and  which,  in  consequence  of  cer- 
tain reports,   had  received  the   appellation  of  the  Haunted 


DOLPH  HEYLWER.  265 

House.  Either  from  these  reports,  or  from  its  actual  dreariness, 
the  doctor  had  found  it  impossible  to  get  a  tenant ;  and,  that 
the  place  might  not  fall  to  ruin  before  he  could  reside  in  it  him- 
self, he  had  placed  a  country  boor,  with  his  family,  in  one  wing, 
with  the  privilege  of  cultivating  the  farm  on  shares. 

The  doctor  now  felt  all  the  dignity  of  a  landholder  rising 
within  him.  He  had  a  little  of  the  German  pride  of  territory 
in  his  composition,  and  almost  looked  upon  himself  as  owner 
of  a  principality.  He  began  to  complain  of  the  fatigue  of  busi- 
ness; and  was  fond  of  riding  out  "to  look  at  his  estate."  His 
little  expeditions  to  his  lands  were  attended  with  a  bustle  and 
parade  that  created  a  sensation  throughout  the  neighbourhood. 
His  wall-eyed  horse  stood,  stamping  and  whisking  off  the  flies, 
for  a  full  hour  before  the  house.  Then  the  doctor's  saddle-bags 
would  be  brought  out  and  adjusted ;  then,  after  a  little  while, 
his  cloak  would  be  rolled  up  and  strapped  to  the  saddle ;  then 
his  umbrella  would  be  buckled  to  the  cloak;  while,  in  the 
meantime,  a  group  of  ragged  boys,  that  observant  class  of 
beings,  would  gather  before  the  door.  At  length,  the  doctor 
would  issue  forth,  in  a  pair  of  jack-boots  that  reached  above 
his  knees,  and  a  cocked  hat  flapped  down  in  front.  As  he  was  a 
short,  fat  man,  he  took  some  time  to  mount  into  the  saddle ; 
and  when  there,  he  took  some  time  to  have  the  saddle  and 
stirrups  properly  adjusted,  enjoying  the  wonder  and  admira- 
tion of  the  urchin  crowd.  Even  after  he  had  set  off,  he  would 
pause  in  the  middle  of  the  street,  or  trot  back  two  or  three 
times  to  give  some  parting  orders ;  which  were  answered  by 
the  housekeeper  from  the  door,  or  Dolph  from  the  study,  or 
the  black  cook  from  the  cellar,  or  the  chambermaid  from  the 
garret- window ;  and  there  were  generally  some  last  words 
bawled  after  him,  just  as  he  was  turning  the  corner. 

The  whole  neighbourhood  would  be  aroused  by  this  pomp  and 
circumstance.  The  cobbler  would  leave  his  last;  the  barber 
would  thrust  out  his  frizzed  head,  with  a  comb  sticking  in  it; 
a  knot  would  collect  at  the  grocer's  door ;  and  the  word  would 
be  buzzed  from  one  end  of  the  street  to  the  other,  ' '  The  doctor's 
riding  out  to  his  country-seat!" 

These  were  golden  moments  for  Dolph.  No  sooner  was  the 
doctor  out  of  sight,  than  pestle  and  mortar  were  abandoned ; 
the  laboratory  was  left  to  take  care  of  itself,  and  the  student 
was  off  on  some  madcap  frolic. 

Indeed,  it  must  be  confessed,  the  youngster,  as  he  grew  up, 
seemed  in  a  fair  way  to  fulfil  the  prediction  of  the  old  claret- 


266  BRACEBRIDOE  HALL. 

coloured  gentleman.  He  was  the  ringleader  of  all  holiday 
sports,  and  midnight  gambols ;  ready  for  all  kinds  of  mischiev- 
ous pranks,  and  harebrained  adventures. 

There  is  nothing  so  troublesome  as  a  hero  on  a  small  scale, 
or,  rather,  a  hero  in  a  small  town.     Dolph  soon  became  the  ab- 
horrence of  all  drowsy,  housekeeping  old  citizens,  who  hated 
noise,  and  had  no  relish  for  waggery.    The  good  dames,  too, 
considered  him  as  little  better  than  a  reprobate,  gathered  their 
daughters  under  their  wings  whenever  he  approached,  and 
pointed  him  out  as  a  warning  to  their  sons.     No  one  seemed  to 
hold  him  in  much  regard,  excepting  the  wild  striplings  of  tht 
place,  who  were  captivated  by  his  open-hearted,  daring  man- 
ners, and  the  negroes,  who  always  look  upon  every  idle,  do- 
nothing  youngster  as  a  kind  of  gentleman.     Even  the  good 
Peter  de  Groodt,  who  had  considered  himself  a  kind  of  patroi 
of  the  lad,  began  to  despair  of  him;  and  would  shake  his  hea( 
dubiously,  as  he  listened  to  a  long  complaint  from  the  house 
keeper,  and  sipped  a  glass  of  her  raspberry  brandy. 

Still  his  mother  was  not  to  be  wearied  out  of  her  affection, 
by  all  the  waywardness  of  her  boy;  no:*  disheartened  by  the 
stories  of  his  misdeeds,  with  which  her  good  friends  were  con- 
tinually regaling  her.     She  had,  it  is  true,  very  little  of  the 
pleasure  which  rich  people  enjoy,  in  always  hearing  their  chil- 
dren praised ;   but  she  considered  all  this  ill-will  as  a  kind  of 
persecution  which  he  suffered,  and  she  liked  him  the  better  01 
that  account.     She  saw  him  growing  up,  a  fine,  tall,  good-look- 
ing youngster,  and  she  looked  at  him  with  the  secret  pride  of 
mother's  heart.     It  was  her  great  desire  that  Dolph   shouk 
appear  like  a  gentleman,  and  all  the  money  she  could  save 
went  towards  helping  out  his  pocket  and  his  wardrobe.    She 
would  look  out  of  the  window  after  him,  as  he  sallied  forth  in 
his  best  array,  and  her  heart  would  yearn  with  delight ;  and 
once,   when  Peter  de  Groodt,   struck  with    the    youngster's 
gallant  appearance  on  a  bright   Sunday  morning,  observed, 
"Well,  after  all,  Dolph  does  grow  a  comely  fellow!"  the 
of  pride  started  into  the  mother's  eye:  "  Ah,  neighbour!  neigh- 
bour!" exclaimed  she,  "they  may  say  what  they  please;  pool 
Dolph  will  yet  hold  up  his  head  with  the  best  of  them." 

Dolph  Heyliger  had  now  nearly  attained  his  one-and-twenti- 
eth  year,  and  the  term  of  his  medical  studies  was  just  expiring; 
yet  it  must  be  confessed  that  he  knew  little  more  of  the  pro- 
fession than  when  he  first  entered  the  doctor's  doors.  This, 
however,  could  not  be  from  want  of  quickness  of  parts,  for  he 


DOLPll  11EYLIGEB,  267 

showed  amazing  aptness  in  mastering  other  branches  of  knowl- 
edge, which  he  could  only  have  studied  at  intervals.  He  was, 
for  instance,  a  sure  marksman,  and  won  all  the  geese  and 
turkeys  at  Christmas  holidays.  He  was  a  bpld  rider;  he  was 
famous  for  leaping  and  wrestling;  he  played  tolerably  on  the 
fiddle ;  could  swim  like  a  iish ;  and  was  the  best  hand  in  the 
whole  place  at  fives  or  nine-pins. 

All  these  accomplishments,  however,  procured  him  no  favour 
in  the  eyes  of  the  doctor,  who  grew  more  and  more  crabbed 
and  intolerant,  the  nearer  the  term  of  apprenticeship  ap- 
proached. Frau  Ilsy,  too,  was  for  ever  finding  some  occasion 
to  raise  a  windy  tempest  about  his  ears ;  and  seldom  encoun- 
tered him  about  the  house,  without  a  clatter  of  the  tongue ;  so 
that  at  length  the  jingling  of  her  keys,  as  she  approached,  was 
to  Dolph  like  the  ringing  of  the  prompter's  bell,  that  gives 
notice  of  a  theatrical  thunder-storm.  Nothing  but  the  infinite 
good-humour  of  the  heedless  youngster,  enabled  him  to  bear  all 
this  domestic  tyranny  without  open  rebellion.  It  was  evident 
that  the  doctor  and  his  housekeeper  were  preparing  to  beat  the 
poor  youth  out  of  the  nest,  the  moment  his  term  should  have 
expired ;  a  shorthand  mode  wnich  the  doctor  had  of  providing 
for  useless  disciples. 

Indeed,  the  little  man  had  been  rendered  more  than  usually 
irritable  lately,  in  consequence  of  various  cares  and  vexations 
which  his  country  estate  had  brought  upon  him.  The  doctor 
had  been  repeatedly  annoyed  by  the  rumours  and.  tales  which 
prevailed  concerning  the  old  mansion ;  and  found  it  difficult  to 
prevail  even  upon  the  countryman  and  his  family  to  remain 
there  rent-free.  Every  time  he  rode  out  to  the  farm,  he  was 
teased  by  some  fresh  complaint  of  strange  noises  and  fearful 
sights,  with  which  the  tenants  were  disturbed  at  night;  and 
the  doctor  would  come  home  fretting  and  fuming,  and  vent  his 
spleen  upon  the  whole  household.  It  was  indeed  a  sore  griev- 
ance, that  affected  him  both  in  pride  and  purse.  He  was 
threatened  with  an  absolute  loss  of  the  profits  of  his  property ; 
and  then,  what  a  blow  to  his  territorial  consequence,  to  be  the 
landlord  of  a  haunted  house ! 

It  was  observed,  however,  that  with  all  his  vexation,  the 
doctor  never  proposed  to  sleep  in  the  house  himself ;  nay,  he 
could  never  be  prevailed  upon  to  remain  in  the  premises  after 
dark,  but  made  the  best  of  his  way  for  town,  as  soon  as  the 
bats  began  to  flit  about  in  the  twilight.  The  fact  was,  the  doc- 
tor had  a  secret  belief  in  ghosts,  having  passed  the  early  pail; 


268  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

of  his  life  in  a  country  where  they  particularly  abound ;  and 
indeed  the  story  went,  that,  when  a  boy,  he  had  once  seen  the 
devil  upon  the  Hartz  mountains  in  Germany. 

At  length,  the  doctor's  vexations  on  this  head  were  brought 
to  a  crisis.  One  morning,  as  he  sat  dozing  over  a  volume  in 
his  study,  he  was  suddenly  started  from  his  slumbers  by  the 
bustling  in  of  the  housekeeper. 

"Here's  a  fine  to  do!"  cried  she,  as  she  entered  the  room. 
"  Here's  Claus  Hopper  come  in,  bag  and  baggage,  from  the 
farm,  and  swear's  he'll  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  it.  The 
whole  family  have  been  frightened  out  of  their  wits;  for  there's 
such  racketing  and  rummaging  about  the  old  house,  that  they 
can't  sleep  quiet  in  their  beds!" 

"Donner  und  blitzen!"  cried  the  doctor,  impatiently;  "will 
they  never  have  done  chattering  about  that  house?  What  a 
pack  of  fools,  to  let  a  few  rats  and  mice  frighten  them  out  of 
good  quarters !" 

"  Nay,  nay,"  said  the  housekeeper,  wagging  her  head  know- 
ingly, and  piqued  at  having  a  good  ghost  story  doubted, 
"there's  more  in  it  than  rats  and  mice.  All  the  neighbour- 
hood talks  about  the  house ;  and  then  such  sights  have  been 
seen  in  it !  Peter  de  Groodt  tells  me,  that  the  family  that  soli 
you  the  house  and  went  to  Holland,  dropped  several  Strang 
hints  about  it,  and  said, '  they  wished  you  joy  of  your  bargain ; 
and  you  know  yourself  there's  no  getting  any  family  to  live 
in  it." 

"  Peter  de  Groodt's  a  ninny — an  old  woman,"  said  the  doctor, 
peevishly;  "  I'll  warrant  he's. been  filling  these  people's  heads 
full  of  stories.  It's  just  like  his  nonsense  about  the  ghost  that 
haunted  the  church  belfry,  as  an  excuse  for  not  ringing  tl 
bell  that  cold  night  when  Harmanus  Brinkerhoff 's  house  wt 
on  fire.     Send  Claus  to  me." 

Claus  Hopper  now  made  his  appearance :  a  simple  counti 
lout,  full  of  awe  at  finding  himself  in  the  very  study  of  Dr. 
Knipperhausen,  and  too  much  embarrassed  to  enter  into  mucl 
detail  of  the  matters  that  had  caused  his  alarm.     He  st( 
twirling  his  hat  in  one  hand,  resting  sometimes  on  one  le^ 
sometimes  on  the  other,  looking  occasionally  at  the  doctor,  an( 
now  and  then  stealing  a  fearful  glance  at  the  death's-head  tl 
seemed  ogling  him  from  the  top  of  the  clothes-press. 

The  doctor  tried  every  means  to  persuade  him  to  return 
the  farm,  but  all  in  vain ;  he  maintained  a  dogged  determina- 
tion on  the  subject;  and  at  the  close  of  every  argument  or 


DOLPH  UEYLIGER.  '    260 

solicitation,  would  make  the  same  brief,  inflexible  reply.  "Ich 
kan  nicht,  mynheer."  The  doctor  was  a  "little  pot,  and  soon 
hot ;"  his  patience  was  exhausted  by  these  continual  vexations 
about  his  estate.  The  stubborn  refusal  of  Claus  Hopper  seemed 
to  him  like  flat  rebellion ;  his  temper  suddenly  boiled  over,  and 
Claus  was  glad  to  make  a  rapid  retreat  to  escape  scalding. 

When  the  bumpkin  got  to  the  housekeeper's  room,  he  found 
Peter  de  Groodt,  and  several  other  true  believers,  ready  to 
receive  him.  Here  he  indemnified  himself  for  the  restraint  he 
had  suffered  in  the  study,  and  opened  a  budget  of  stories  about 
the  haunted  house  that  astonished  all  his  hearers.  The  house- 
keeper believed  them  all,  if  it  was  only  to  spite  the  doctor  for 
having  received  her  intelligence  so  uncourteously.  Peter  de 
Groodt  matched  them  with  many  a  wonderful  legend  of  the 
times  of  the  Dutch  dynasty,  and  of  the  Devil's  Stepping-stones ; 
and  of  the  pirate  that  was  hanged  at  Gibbet  Island,  and  con- 
tinued to  swing  there  at  night  long  after  the  gallows  was  taken 
down ;  and  of  the  ghost  of  the  unfortunate  G  overnor  Leisler, 
who  was  hanged  for  treason,  which  haunted  the  old  fort  and 
the  government  house.  The  gossiping  knot  dispersed,  each 
charged  with  direful  intelligence.  The  sexton  disburdened 
himself  at  a  vestry  meeting  that  was  held  that  very  day,  and 
the  black  cook  forsook  her  kitchen,  and  spent  half  the  day  at 
the  street  pump,  that  gossiping  place  of  servants,  dealing  forth 
the  news  to  all  that  came  for  water.  In  a  little  time,  the  whole 
town  was  in  a  buzz  with  tales  about  the  haunted  house.  Some 
said  that  Claus  Hopper  had  seen  the  devil,  while  others  hinted 
that  the  house  was  haunted  by  the  ghosts  of  some  of  the 
patients  whom  the  doctor  had  physicked  out  of  the  world,  and 
that  was  the  reason  why  he  did  not  venture  to  live  in  it  him- 
self. 

All  this  put  the  little  doctor  in  a  terrible  fume.  He  threat- 
ened vengeance  on  any  one  who  should  affect  the  value  of  his 
property  by  exciting  popular  prejudices.  He  complained 
loudly  of  thus  being  in  a  manner  dispossessed  of  his  territories 
by  mere  bugbears;  but  he  secretly  determined  to  have  the 
house  exorcised  by  the  Dominie.  Great  was  his  relief,  there- 
fore, when,  in  the  midst  of  his  perplexities,  Dolph  stepped 
forward  and  undertook  to  garrison  the  haunted  house.  The 
youngster  had  been  listening  to  all  the  stories  of  Claus  Hopper 
and  Peter  de  Groodt :  he  was  fond  of  adventure,  he  loved  the 
marvellous,  and  his  imagination  had  become  quite  excited  by 
these  tales  of  wonder.    Besides,  he  had  led  such  an  uncomfort- 


270  BRAGEBRID&B  HALL. 

able  life  at  the  doctor's,  Deing  subjected  to  the  intolerable 
thraldom  of  early  hours,  that  he  was  delighted  at  the  prospect 
of  having  a  house  to  himself,  even  though  it  should  be  a 
haunted  one.  His  offer  was  eagerly  accepted,  and  it  was  de- 
termined that  he  should  mount  guard  that  very  night.  His 
only  stipulation  was,  that  the  enterprise  should  be  kept  secret 
from  his  mother ;  tor  he  knew  the  poor  soul  would  not  sleep  a 
wink,  if  she  knew  that  her  son  was  waging  war  with  the 
powers  of  darkn 

When  night  came  on,  he  set  out  on  this  perilous  expedition. 
The  old  black  cook,  his  only  friend  in  the  household,  had  pro- 
vided him  with  a  little  mess  for  supper,  and  a  rushlight;  and 
she  tied  round  his  neck  an  amulet,  given  her  by  an  African' 
conjurer,  as  a  charm  against  evil  spirits.  Dolph  was  escorted 
on  his  way  bv  the  doctor  and  Peter  de  Groodt,  who  had  agreed 
to  accompany  him  to  the  house,  and  to  see  him  safe  lodged. 
The  night  was  ove*oast,  ;'.:i<l  it  was  very  dark  when  they 
arrived  at  the  grounds  which  surrounded  the  mansion.  The 
sexton  led  the  way  with  a  lantern.  As  they  walked  along  the 
avenue  of  acacias,  the  fitful  light,  catching  from  bush  to  bush, 
and  tree  to  tree,  often  startled  the  doughty  Peter,  and  made 
him  fall  back  upon  his  followers ;  and  the  doctor  grabbed  still 
closer  hold  of  Dolph's  arm,  observing  that  the  ground  was 
very  slippery  and  uneven.  At  one  time  they  were  nearly  put 
to  a  total  rout  by  a  bat,  which  came  flitting  about  the  lan- 
tern ;  and  the  notes  of  the  insects  from  the  trees,  and  the  frogs 
from  a  neighbouring  pond,,  formed  a  most  drowsy  and  doleful, 
concert.  *  * 

The  front  door  of  the  mansion  opened  with  a  grating  sound, 
that  made  the  doctor  turn  pale.  They  entered  a  tolerably 
large  hall,  such  as  is  common  in  American  country-houses, 
and  which  serves  for  a  sitting-room  in  warm  weather.  From 
hence  they  went  up  a  wide  staircase,  that  groaned  and  creaked 
as  they  trod,  every  step  making  its  particular  note,  like  the 
key  of  a  harpsichord.  This  led  to  another  hall  on  the  second 
story,  from  whence  they  entered  the  room  where  Dolph  was 
to  sleep.  It  was  large,  and  scantily  furnished;  the  shutters 
were  closed ;  but  as  they  were  much  broken,  there  was  no  want 
of  a  circulation  of  air.  It  appeared  to  have  been  that  sacred 
chamber,  known  among  Dutch  housewives  by  the  name  of 
"the  best  bed-room ;"  which  is  the  best  furnished  room  in  thfl 
house,  but  in  which  scarce  any  body  is  ever  permitted  to  sleep. 
Its  splendour,  however,  was  all  at  an  end.    There  were  afetf. 


D0LP1I  HFTLIGER.  271 

broken  articles  of  furniture  about  the  room,  and  in  the  centre 
stood  a  heavy  deal  table  and  a  large  arm-chair,  both  of  which 
had  the  look  of  being  coeval  with  the  mansion.  The  fire-place 
was  wide,  and  had  been  faced  with  Dutch  tiles,  representing 
scripture  stories;  but  some  of  them  had  fallen  out  of  their 
places,  and  lay  shattered  about  the  hearth.  The  sexton  had  lit 
the  rushlight;  and  the  doctor,  looking  fearfully  about  the 
room,  was  just  exhorting  Dolph  to  be  of  good  cheer,  and  to 
pluck  up  a  stout  heart,  when  a  noise  in  the  chimney,  like 
voices  and  struggling,  struck  a  sudden  panic  into  the  sexton. 
He  took  to  his  heels  with  the  lantern ;  the  doctor  followed  hard 
after  him;  ttie  stairs  groaned  and  creaked  as  they  hurried 
down,  increasing  their  agitation  and  speed  by  its  noises.  The 
front  door  slammed  after  them;  and  Dolph  heard  them  scrab- 
bling down  the  avenue,  till  the  sound  of  their  feet  was  lost  in 
the  distance.  That  he  did  not  join  in  this  precipitate  retreat, 
might  have  been  owing  to  his  possessing  a  little  more  courage 
than  his  companions,  or  perhaps  that  he  had  caught  a  glimpse 
of  the  cause  of  their  dismay,  in  a  nest  of  chimney  swallows, 
that  came  tumbling  down  into  the  fire-place. 

Being  now  left  to  himself,  he  secured  the  front  door  by  a 
strong  bolt  and  bar ;  and  having  seen  that  the  other  entrances 
were  fastened,  he  returned  to  his  desolate  chamber.  Having 
made  his  supper  from  the  basket  which  the  good  old  cook  had 
provided,  he  locked  the  chamber  door,  and  retired  to  rest  on  a 
mattress  in  one  corner.  The  night  was  cairn  and  still;  and 
nothing  broke  upon  the  profound  quiet  but  the  lonely  chirping 
of  a  cricket  from  the  chimney  of  a  distant  chamber.  The 
rushlight,  which  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  deal  table,  shed  a 
feeble  vellow  ray,  dimly  illumining  the  chamber,  and  making- 
uncouth  shapes  and  shadows  on  the  walls,  from  the  clothes 
which  Dolph  had  thrown  over  a  chair. 

With  all  his  boldness  of  heart,  there  was  something  subduing 
in  this  desolate  scene;  and  he  felt  his  spirits  flag  within  him, 
as  he  lay  on  his  hard  bed  and  gazed  about  the  room.  He  was 
turning  over  in  his  mind  his  idle  habits,  his  doubtful  prospects. 
and  now  and  then  heaving,  a  heavy  sigh,  as  he  thought  on  his 
poor  old  mother;  for  there  is  nothing  like  the  silence  and  lone- 
liness of  night  to  bring  dark  shadows  over  the  brightest  .mind. 
By-and-by,  he  thought  he  heard  a  sound  as  if  some  one  was 
-walking  below  stairs.  He  listened,  and  distinctly  heard  a  step 
on  the  great  staircase.  It  approached  solemnly  and  slowly, 
tramp—tramp— tramp!    It  was  evidently  the  tread  of  some 


272  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

heavy  personage;  and  yet  how  could  he  have  got  into  the 
house  without  making  a  noise?  He  had  examined  all  the 
fastenings,  and  was  certain  that  every  entrance  was  secure. 
Still  the  steps  advanced,  tramp — tramp — tramp!  It  was  evi- 
dent that  the  person  approaching  could  not  he  a  rohhcr— the 
step  was  too  loud  and  deliberate;  a  robber  would  either  be 
stealthy  or  precipitate.  And  now  the  footsteps  had  ascended 
the  staircase ;  they  were  slowly  advancing  along  the  passage, 
resounding  through  the  silent  and  empty  apartments.  The 
very  cricket  had  ceased  its  melancholy  note,  and  nothing 
interrupted  their  awful  distinctness.  The  door,  which  had 
been  locked  on  the  inside,  slowly  swung  open,  as  if  self-moved. 
The  footsteps  entered  the  room ;  but  no  one  was  to  be  seen. 
They  passed  slowly  and  audibly  across  it,  tramp— tramp— 
tramp!  but  whatever  made  the  sound  was  invisible.  Dolph 
rubbed  his  eyes,  and  stared  about  him ;  he  could  see  to  every 
part  of  the  dimly-lighted  chamber;  all  was  vacant;  yet  still 
he  heard  those  mysterious  footsteps,  solemnly  walking  about 
the  chamber.  They  ceased,  and  all  was  dead  silence.  There 
was  something  more  appalling  in  this  invisible  visitation,  than 
there  would  have  been  in  anything  that  addressed  itself  to  the 
eyesight.  It  was  awfully  vague  and  indefinite.  He  felt  his 
heart  beat  against  his  ribs ;  a  cold  sweat  broke  out  upon  his 
forehead;  he  lay  for  some  time  in  a  state  of  violent  agitation; 
nothing,  however,  occurred  to  increase  his  alarm.  His  light 
gradually  burnt  down  into  the  socket,  and  he  fell  asleep. 
When  he  awoke  it  was  broad  daylight;  the  sun  was  peering 
through  the  cracks  of  the  window-shutters,  and  the  birds  were 
merrily  singing  about  the  house.  The  bright,  cheery  day  soon 
put  to  flight  all  the  terrors  of  the  preceding  night.  Dolph 
laughed,  or  rather  tried  to  laugh,  at  all  that  had  passed,  and 
endeavoured  to  persuade  himself  that  it  was  a  mere  freak  of 
the  imagination,  conjured  up  by  the  stories  he  had  heard ;  but 
he  was  a  little  puzzled  to  find  the  door  of  his  room  locked  on 
the  inside,  notwithstanding  that  he  had  positively  seen  it 
swing  open  as  the  footsteps  had  entered.  He  returned  to  town 
in  a  state  of  considerable  perplexity ;  but  he  determined  to  say 
nothing  on  the  subject,  until  his  doubts  were  either  confirmed 
or  removed  by  another  night's  watching.  His  silence  was  a 
grievous  disappointment  to  the  gossips  who  had  gathered  at 
the  doctor's  mansion.  They  had  prepared  their  minds  to  hear- 
direful  tales ;  and  they  were  almost  in  a  rage  at  being  assured 
that  he  had  nothing  to  relate. 


DOLPH  HETLIQBB. 

The  next  night,  then,  Dolph  repeated  his  vigil.  He  now 
entered  the  house  with  some  trepidation.  He  was  particular 
in  examining  the  fastenings  of  all  the  doors,  and  securing  them 
well.  He  locked  the  door  of  his  chamber,  and  placed  a  chair 
against  it ;  then,  having  despatched  his  supper,  he  threw  him 
self  on  his  mattress  and  endeavoured  to  sleep.  It  was  all  in 
vain— a  thousand  crowding  fancies  kept  him  waking.  The 
time  slowly  dragged  on,  as  if  minutes  were  spinning  out  them- 
selves into  hours.  As  the  night  advanced,  he  grew  more  and 
more  nervous ;  and  he  almost  started  from  his  couch,  when  he 
heard  the  mysterious  footstep  again  on  the  staircase.  Up  it 
came,  as  before,  solemnly  and  slowly,  tramp — tramp — tramp ! 
It  approached  along  the  passage ;  the  door  again  swung  open, 
as  if  there  had  been  neither  lock  nor  impediment,  and  a  strange- 
looking  figure  stalked  into  the  room.  It  was  an  elderly  man, 
large  and  robust,  clothed  in  the  old  Flemish  fashion.  He  had 
on  a  kind  of  short  cloak,  with  a  garment  under  it,  belted 
round  the  waist;  trunk  hose,  with  great  bunches  or  bows  at 
the  knees ;  and  a  pair  of  russet  boots,  very  large  at  top.  and 
standing  widely  from  his  legs.  His  hat  was  broad  and  slouched, 
with  a  feather  trailing  over  one  side.  His  iron-gray  hair  hung 
in  thick  masses  on  his  neck ;  and  he  had  a  short  grizzled  beard. 
He  walked  slowly  round  the  room,  as  if  examining  that  all  was 
safe:  then,  hanging  his  hat  on  a  peg  beside  the  door?  he  sat 
down  in  the  elbow-chair,  and,  leaning  his  elbow  on  the  table, 
he  fixed  his  eyes  on  Dolph  with  an  unnioving  and  deadening 
stare. 

Dolph  was  not  naturally  a  coward ;  but  he  had  been  brought 
up  in  an  implicit  belief  in  ghosts  and  goblins.  A  thousand 
stories  came  swarming  to  his  mind,  that  he  had  heard  about 
this  building;  and  as  he  looked  at  tins  strange  personage,  with 
his  uncouth  garb,  his  pale  visage,  his  grizzly  beard,  and  his 
fixed,  staring,  fish-like  eye.  his  teeth  began  to  chatter,  his  hair 
to  rise  on  his  head,  and  a  cold  sweat  to  break  out  all  over  his 
body.  How  long  he  remained  in  this  situation  he  could  not 
tell,  for  he  was  like  one  fascinated.  He  could  not  take  his  gaze 
off  from  the  spectre;  but  lay  staring  at  him  with  his  whole 
intellect  absorbed  in  the  contemplation.  The  old  man  remained 
seated  behind  the  table,  without  stirring  or  turning  an  eye, 
always  keeping  a  dead  steady  glare  upon  Dolph.  At  length 
the  household  cock  from  a  neighbouring  farm  clapped  his 
wings,  and  gave  a  loud  cheerful  crow  that  rung  over  the  fields. 
At  the  sound,  the  old  man  slowly  rose  and  took  down  his  hat 


274  BBACK1UUDGE  HALL. 

from  the  peg ;  the  door  opened  and  closed  after  him ;  he  was 
heard  to  go  slowly  down  the  staircase  -tramp— tramp— tramp ! 
—and  when  he  had  got  to  the  bottom,  all  was  again  silent. 
Dolph  lay  and  listened  earnestly;  counted  every  footfall; 
listened  and  listened  if  the  steps  should  return — until,  ex- 
hausted by  watching  and  agitation,  he  fell  into  a  troubled 
sleep. 

Daylight  again  brought  fresh  courage  and  assurance.  He 
would  fain  have  considered  all  that  had  passed  as  a  mere 
dream:  yet  there  stood  the  chair  in  which  the  unknown  had 
seated  himself ;  there  was  the  table  on  which  he  had  leaned ; 
there  was  the  peg  on  which  he  had  hung  his  hat;  and  there 
was  the  door,  locked  precisely  as  he  himself  had  locked  it,  with 
the  chair  placed  against  it.  He  hastened  down-stairs  and 
examined  the  doors  and  windows;  all  were  exactly  in  the  same 
state  in  which  he  had  left  them,  and  there  was  no  apparent 
way  by  which  any  being  could  have  entered  and  left  the  house 
without  leaving  some  trace  behind.  "Pooh!"  said  Dolph  to 
himself,  "it  was  all  a  dream;" — but  it  would  not  do;  the  more 
he  endeavoured  to  shake  the  scene  off  from  his  mind,  the 
more  it  haunted  him. 

Though  he  persisted  in  a  strict  silence  as  to  all  that  he  had  seen 
or  heard,  yet  his  looks  betrayed  the  uncomfortable  night  that 
he  had  passed.  It  was  evident  that  there  was  something  won- 
derful hidden  under  this  mysterious  reserve.  The  doctor  took 
him  into  the  study,  locked  the  door,  and  sought  to  have  a  full 
and  confidential  communication;  but  he  could  get  nothing  out 
of  him.  Frau  Ilsy  took  him  aside  into  the  pantry,  but  to  as 
little  purpose ;  and  Peter  de  Groodt  held  him  by  the  button  for 
a  full  hour  in  the  church-yard,  the  very  place  to  get  at  th 
bottom  of  a  ghost  story,  but  came  off  not  a  whit  wiser  than  the 
rest.  It  is  always  the  case,  however,  that  one  truth  concealed 
makes  a  dozen  current  lies.  It  is  like  a  guinea  locked  up  in 
bank,  that  has  a  dozen  paper  representatives.  Before  the  day 
was  over,  the  neighbourhood  was  full  of  reports.  Some  said 
that  Dolph  Heyliger  watched  in  the  haunted  house  with  pistols 
loaded  with  silver  bullets ;  others,  that  he  had  a  long  talk  with 
the  spectre  without  a  head ;  others,  that  Doctor  Knipperhausen 
and  the  sexton  had  been  hunted  down  the  Bowery  lane,  and 
quite  into  town,  by  a  legion  of  ghosts  of  their  customers.  Some 
shook  their  heads,  and  thought  it  a  shame  that  the  doctor 
should  put  Dolph  to  pass  the  night  alone  in  that  dismal  house, 
where  he  might  be  spirited  away,  no  one  knew  whither ;  while 


is 

I 


DOLPIl  BEYLIQER  275 

others  observed,  with  a  shrug,  that  if  the  devil  did  carry  off 
the  youngster,  it  would  be  but  taking  his  own. 

These  rumours  at  length  reached  the  ears  of  the  good  Dame 
Heyliger,  and,  as  may  be  supposed,  threw  her  into  a  terrible 
alarm.  For  her  son  to  have  opposed  himself  to  aanger  from 
living  foes,  would  have  been  nothing  so  dreadful  in  her  eyes  as 
to  dare  alone  the  terrors  of  the  haunted  house.  She  hastened 
to  the  doctor's,  and  passed  a  great  part  of  the  day  in  attempt- 
ing to  dissuade  Dolph  from  repeating  his  vigil;  she  told  him  a 
score  of  tales,  which  her  gossiping  friends  had  just  related  to 
her,  of  persons  who  had  been  carried  oif  when  watching  alone 
in  old  ruinous  houses.  It  was  all  to  no  effect.  Dolph 's  pride, 
as  well  as  curiosity,  was  piqued.  He  endeavoured  to  calm  the 
apprehensions  of  his  mother,  and  to  assure  her  that  there  was 
no  truth  in  all  the  rumours  she  had  heard ;  she  looked  at  him 
dubiously,  and  shook  her  head ;  but  finding  his  determination 
was  not  to  be  shaken,  she  brought  him  a  little  thick  Dutch  Bible, 
with  brass  clasps,  to  take  with  him,  as  a  sword  wherewith  to 
fight  the  powers  of  darkness ;  and,  lest  that  might  not  be  suffi- 
cient, the  housekeeper  gave  him  the  Heidelburgh  catechism  by 
way  of  dagger. 

The  next  night,  therefore,  Dolph  took  up  his  quarters  for  the 
third  time  in  the  old  mansion.  Whether  dream  or  not,  the 
same  thing  was  repeated.  Towards  midnight,  when  every 
thing  was  still,  the  same  sound  echoed  through  the  empty 
halls— tramp — tramp-  tramp !  The  stairs  were  again  ascended ; 
the  door  again  swung  open ;  the  old  man  entered,  walked  round 
the  room,  hung  up  his  hat,  and  seated  himself  by  the  table. 
The  same  fear  and  trembling  came  over  poor  Dolph,  though 
not  in  so  violent  a  degree.  He  lay  in  the  same  way,  motion- 
less and  fascinated,  staring  at  the  figure,  which  regarded  him, 
as  before,  with  a  dead,  fixed,  chilling  gaze.  In  this  way  they 
remained  for  a  long  time,  till,  by  degrees,  Dolplrs  cour- 
age began  gradually  to  revive.  Whether  alive  or  dead,  this 
being  had  certainly  some  object  in  his  visitation;  and  he  re- 
collected to  have  heard  it  said3  that  spirits  have  no  power  to 
speak  until  they  are  spoken  to.  Summoning  up  resolution, 
therefore,  and  making  two  or  three  attempts  before  he  could 
get  his  parched  tongue  in  motion,  he  addressed  the  unknown 
in  the  most  solemn  form  of  adjuration  that  he  could 
recollect,  and  demanded  to  know  what  was  the  motive  of  his 
visit, 

No  sooner  had  he  finished,  than  the  old  man  rose,  took 


27G  BRAGEBR1DQE  HALL. 

down  his  hat,  the  door  opened,  and  he  went  out,  looking  back 
upon  Dolph  just  as  he  crossed  the  threshold,  as  if  expecting 
him  to  follow.  The  youngster  did  not  hesitate  an  instant.  He 
took  the  can/lie  in  his  hand,  and  the  Bible  under  his  arm,  and 
obeyed  the  tacit  invitation.  The  candle  emitted  a  feeble, 
uncertain  ray;  but  still  he  could  see  the  figure  before  him, 
slowly  descend  the  stairs.  He  followed,  trembling.  When  it 
had  reached  the  bottom  of  the  stairs,  it  turned  through  the 
hall  towards  the  back  door  of  the  mansion.  Dolph  held  the 
light  over  the  balustrades;  but,  in  his  eagerness  to  catch  a 
sight  of  the  unknown,  he  flared  his  feeble  taper  so  suddenly, 
that  it  went  out.  Still  there  was  sufficient  light  from  the  pale 
moonbeams,  that  fell  through  a  narrow  window,  to  give  him 
an  indistinct  view  of  the  figure,  near  the  door.  He  followed, 
therefore,  down-stairs,  and  turned  towards  the  place;  but  when 
he  had  got  there,  the  unknown  had  disappeared.  The  door 
remained  fast  barred  and  bolted;  there  was  no  other  mode  of 
exit;  yet  the  being,  whatever  he  might  be,  was  gone.  He 
unfastened  the  door,  and  looked  out  into  the  fields.  It  was  a 
hazy,  moonlight  night,  so  that  the  eye  could  distinguish  objects 
at  some  distance.  He  thought  he  saw  the  unknown  in  a  foot- 
path that  led  from  the  door.  He  was  not  mistaken ;  but  how 
had  he  got  out  of  che  house?  He  did  not  pause  to  think,  but 
followed  on.  The  old  man  proceeded  at  a  measured  pace,  with- 
out looking  about  him,  his  footsteps  sounding  on  the  har< 
ground.  He  passed  through  the  orchard  of  apple-trees  that 
stood  near  the  house,  always  keeping  the  footpath.  It  led  to 
a  well,  situated  in  a  little  hollow,  which  had  supplied  the  fai 
with  water.  Just  at  this  well,  Dolph  lost  sight  of  him.  H< 
rubbed  his  eyes,  and  looked  again ;  but  nothing  was  to  be  seei 
of  the  unknown.  He  reached  the  well,  but  nobody  was  there. 
All  the  surrounding  ground  was  open  and  clear ;  there  was  n( 
bush  nor  hiding-place.  He  looked  down  the  well,  and  saw,  a1 
a  great  depth,  the  reflection  of  the  sky  in  the  still  water.  Aftei 
remaining  here  for  some  time,  without  seeing  or  hearing  any 
thing  more  of  his  mysterious  conductor,  he  returned  to  the 
house,  full  of  awe  and  wonder.  He  bolted  the  door,  groped  his? 
way  back  to  bed,  and  it  was  long  before  he  could  compose  him- 
self to  sleep. 

His  dreams  were  strange  and  troubled.  He  thought  he  was 
following  the  old  man  along  the  side  of  a  great  river,  until  they 
came  to  a  vessel  that  was  on  the  point  of  sailing ;  and  that  his 
conductor  led  him  on  board  and  vanished.     He  remembered 


DGLTn  UKYLIGER.  277 

the  commander  of  the  vessel,  a  short  swarthy  man,  with 
crisped  black  hair,  blind  of  one  eye,  and  lame  of  one  leg;  but 
the  rest  of  his  dream  was  very  confused.  Sometimes  ] 
sailing;  sometimes  on  shore;  now  amidst  storms  and  tem- 
pests, and  now  wandering  quietly  in  unknown  streets.  The 
figure  of  the  old  man  was  strangely  mingled  up  with  the  in- 
cidents of  the  dream ;  and  the  whole  distinctly  wound  up  by 
his  finding  himself  on  board  of  the  vessel  again,  returning 
home,  with  a  great  ba;  of  money ! 

When  he  woke,  the  gray,  cool  fight  of  dawn  was  streaking 
the  horizon,  and  the  cocks  passing  the  reveil  from  farm  to  farm 
throughout  the  country.  He  rose  more  harassed  and  perplexed 
than  ever.  He  was  singularly  confounded  by  all  that  he  had 
seen  and  dreamt,  and  began  to  doubt  whether  his  mind  was 
not  affected,  and  whether  all  that  was  passing  in  his  thoughts 
might  not  be  mere  feverish  fantasy.  In  his  present  state  of 
mind,  he  did  not  feel  disposed  to  return  immediately  to  the 
doctor's,  and  undergo  the  cross-questioning  of  the  household. 
I  He  made  a  scanty  breakfast,  therefore,  on  the  remains  of  the 
last  night's  provisions,  and  then  wandered  out  into  the  fields  to 
meditate  on  all  that  had  befallen  him.  Lost  in  thought,  he 
rambled  about,  gradually  approaching  the  town,  until  the 
morning  was  far  advanced,  when  he  was  roused  by  a  hurry 
and  bustle  around  him.  He  found  himself  near  the  water  s 
edge,  in  a  throng  of  people,  hurrying  to  a  pier,  where  there 
was  a  vessel  ready  to  make  sail.  He  was  unconsciously  car- 
ried along  by  the  impulse  of  the  crowd,  and  found  that  it  was 
a  sloop,  on  the  point  of  sailing  up  the  Hudson  to  Albany. 
There  was  much  leave-taking  and  kissing  of  old  women  and 
children,  and  great  activity  in  carrying  on  board  baskets  of 
bread  and  cakes,  and  provisions  of  all  kinds,  notwithstanding 
the  mighty  joints  of  meat  that  dangled  over  the  stern;  for  a 
voyage  to  Albany  was  an  expedition  of  great  moment  in  those 
days.  The  commander  of  the  sloop  was  hurrying  about,  and 
giving  a  world  of  orders,  which  were  not  very  strictly  attend- 
ed to;  one  man  being  busy  in  fighting  his  pipe,  and  another 
in  sharpening  his  snicker-snee. 

The  appearance  of  the  commander  suddenly  caught  Dolph's 
attention.  He  was  short  and  swarthy,  with  crisped  black 
hair;  blind  of  one  eye,  and  lame  of  one  leg— the  very  com- 
mander that  he  had  seen  in  his  dream !  Surprised  and  aroused, 
he  considered  the  scene  more  attentively,  and   recalled  still 

funV:  -  of  his  dream:  the  appearance  of  fcbeyesee]  iu 


278  BRACEBRIBGE  HALL. 

the  river,  and  of  a  variety  of  other  objects,  accorded  with  the 
imperfect  images  vaguely  rising  to  recollection. 

As  he  stood  musing  on  these  circumstances,  the  captain 
suddenly  called  out  to  him  in  Dutch,  "Step  on  board,  yoimg 
man,  or  you'll  be  left;  behind !"  He  was  startled  by  the  sum- 
mons ;  he  saw  that  the  sloop  was  cast  loose,  and  was  actually 
moving  from  the  pier;  it  seemed  as  if  he  was  actuated  by  some 
irresistible  impulse;  he  sprang  upon  the  deck,  and  the  next 
moment  the  sloop  was  hurried  off  by  the  wind  and  tide. 
Dolph's  thoughts  and  feelings  were  all  in  tumult  and  confusion. 
He  had  been  strongly  worked  upon  by  the  events  that  had 
recently  befallen  him,  and  could  not  but  think  that  there  was 
some  connexion  between  his  present  situation  and  his  last 
night's  dream.  He  felt  as  if  he  was  under  supernatural  in- 
fluence ;  and  he  tried  to  assure  himself  with  an  old  and  favour- 
ite maxim  of  his,  that  "  one  way  or  other,  all  would  turn  out 
for  the  best."  For  a  moment,  the  indignation  of  the  doctor  at 
his  departure  without  leave,  passed  across  his  mind— but  that 
was  matter  of  little  moment.  Then  he  thought  of  the  distress 
of  his  mother  at  his  strange  disappearance,  and  the  idea  gave 
him  a  sudden  pang;  he  would  have  entreated  to  be  put  on 
shore;  but  he  knew  with  such  wind  and  tide  the  entreaty 
would  have  been  in  vain.  Then,  the  inspiring  love  of  novelty 
and  adventure  came  rushing  in  full  tide  through  his  bosom;  he 
felt  himself  launched  strangely  and  suddenly  on  the  world,  and 
under  full  way  to  explore  the  regions  of  wonder  that  lay  up 
this  mighty  river,  and  beyond  those  blue  mountains  that  had 
bounded  his  horizon  since  childhood.  While  he  was  lost  in  this 
whirl  of  thought,  the  sails  strained  to  the  breeze;  the  shores 
seemed  to  hurry  away  behind  him;  and,  before  he  perfectly 
recovered  his  self-possession,  the  sloop  was  ploughing  her  way 
past  Spiking-devil  and  Yonkers,  and  the  tallest  chimney  of  the 
Manhattoes  had  faded  from  his  sight. 

I  have  said,  that  a  voyage  up  the  Hudson  in  those  days  was 
an  undertaking  of  some  moment;  indeed,  it  w^as  as  much 
thought  of  as  a  voyage  to  Europe  is  at  present.  The  sloops 
were  often  many  days  on  the  way;  the  cautious  navigators 
taking  in  sail  when  it  blew  fresh,  and  coming  to  anchor  at 
night ;  and  stopping  to  send  the  boat  ashore  for  milk  for  tea, 
without  which  it  was  impossible  for  the  worthy  old  lady  pas- 
sengers to  subsist.  And  there  were  the  much-talked-of  perils 
of  the  Tappaan  Zee,  and  the  highlands.  In  short,  a  prudent 
Dutch  burgher  would  talk  of  such  a  voyage  for  months,  and 


DOLPH  EETLIGER.  279 

even  years,  beforehand;  and  never  undertook  it  without  put- 
ting his  an^iirs  in  order,  making  his  will,  and  having  prayers 
said  for  him  in  the  Low  Dutch  churches. 

In  the  course  of  such  a  voyage,  therefore,  Dolph  was  satisfied 
he  would  have  time  enough  to  reflect,  and  to  makeup  his  mind 
as  to  what  he  should  do  when  he  arrived  at  Albany.  The  cap- 
tain, with  his  blind  eye  and  lame  leg,  would,  it  is  true,  bring  his 
strange  dream  to  mind,  and  perplex  him  sadly  for  a  few  mo- 
ments; but,  of  late,  his  life  had  been  made  up  so  much  of 
dreams  and  realities,  his  nights  and  days  had  been  so  jumbled 
.T.  that  he  seemed  to  be  moving  continually  in  a  de- 
lusion. There  is  always,  however,  a  kind  of  vagabond  con- 
solation in  a  mans  having  nothing  in  tins  world  to  lose;  with 
this  Dolph  comforted  his  heart,  and  determined  to  make  the 
most  of  the  present  enjoyment. 

In  the  second  day  of  the  voyage  they  came  to  the  high- 
lands. It  was  the  latter  part  of  a  calm,  sultry  day.  that  they 
floated  gently  with  the  tide  between  these  stern  mountains. 
There  was  that  perfect  quiet  winch  prevails  over  nature  in 
the  languor  of  summer  heat ;  the  turning  of  a  plank,  or  the 
accidental  falling -of  an  oar  on  deck,  was  echoed  from  +he 
mountain  side  and  reverberated  along  the  shores;  and  if  by 
chance  the  captain  gave  a  shout  of  command,  there  were  airy 
tongues  that  mocked  it  from  every  cliff. 

Dolph  gazed  about  him  in  mute  delight  and  wonder,  at  these 
scenes  of  nature's  magnificence.  To  the  left  the  Dunderberg 
reared  its  woody  precipices,  height  over  height,  forest  over 
forest,  away  into  the  deep  summer  sky.  To  the  right  strutted 
forth  the  bold  promontory  of  Anthony's  Nose,  with  a  solitary 
eagle  wheeling  about  it ;  while  beyond,  mountain  succeeded  to 
mountain,  until  they  seemed  to  lock  their  arms  together,  and 
confine  this  mighty  river  in  their  embraces.  There  was  a  feel- 
ing of  quiet  luxury  in  gazing  at  the  broad,  green  bosoms  here 
and  there  scooped  out  among  the  precipices ;  or  at  woodlands 
high  in  air,  nodding  over  the  edge  of  some  beetling  bluff,  and 
their  foliage  all  transparent  in  the  yellow  sunshine. 

In  the  midst  of  his  admiration,  Dolpn  remarked  a  pile  of 
bright,  snowy  clouds  peering  above  the  western  heights.  It 
was  succeeded  by  another,  and  another,  each  seemingly  push- 
ing onwards  its  predecessor,  and  towering,  with  dazzling  bril- 
liancy, hi  the  deep-blue  atmosphere :  and  now  muttering  peals 
of  thunder  were  faintly  heard  rolling  behind  the  mount;  I 
The  river,   hitherto  still  and  glassy,  reflecting  pictures  °f  the 


280  BRAGEBRIDOE  TTAT.L. 

sky  and  land,  now  showed  a  dark  ripple  at  a  distance,  as  the 
breeze  came  creeping  up  it.  The  fish-hawks  v^heeled  and 
screamed,  and  sought  their  nests  on  the  high  dry  trees;  the 
crows  flew  clamorously  to  the  crevices  of  the  rocks,  and  all 
nature  seemed  conscious  oL  the  approaching  thunder-gust. 

The  clouds  now  rolled  in  volumes  over  the  morntain  tops; 
their  summits  still  bright  and  snowy,  but  the  lower  parts  of  an 
inky  blackness.  The  rain  began  to  patte  '  down  in  broad  and 
scattered  drops;  the  wind  freshened,  and  curled  up  the  waves; 
at  length  it  seemed  as  i1  the  bellying  clouds  were  torn  open  by 
th<i  mountain  tops,  and  complete  torrents  of  rain  came  rattling 
down.  The  lightning  leaped  from  cloud  to  cloud,  and  streamed 
quivering  against  the  rocks,  splitting  and  rending  the  stoutest 
forest  trees.  The  thunder  burst  in  tremendous  explosions;  the 
peals  were  echoed  from  mountain  to  mountain;  they  crashed 
upon  Dunderberg,  and  rolled  up  the  long  defile  of  the  high- 
lands, each  headland  making  a  new  echo,  until  old  Bull  hill 
seemed  to  bellow  back  the  storm. 

For  a  time  the  scudding  rack  and  mist,  and  the  sheeted  raiif, 
almost  hid  the  landscape  from  the  sight.  There  was  a  fearful 
gloom,  illumined  still  more  fearfully  by  the  streams  of  light- 
ning which  glittered  among  the  rain-drops.  Never  had  Dolph 
beheld  such  an  absolute  warring  of  the  elements :  it  seemed  as 
if  the  storm  was  tearing  and  rending  its  way  through  this 
mountain  defile,  and  had  brought  all  the  artillery  of  heaven; 
into  action. 

The  vessel  was  hurried  on  by  the  increasing  wind,  until  she 
came  to  where  the  river  makes  a  sudden  bend,  the  only  one  in- 
the  whole  course  of  its  majestic  career.*    Just  as  they  turned 
the  point,  a  violent  flaw  of  wind  came  sweeping  down  a  moun- 
tain gully,  bending  the  forest  before  it,  and,  in  a  moment,  lash- 
ing up  the  river  into  white  froth  and  foam.     The  captain  saw 
the  danger,  and  cried  out  to  lower  the  sail.     Before  the  order 
could  be  obeyed,  the  flaw  struck  the  sloop,  and  threw  her  on 
her  beam-ends.      Everything  was  now  fright  and  confusion:  i 
the  flapping  of  the  sails,  the  whistling  and  rushing  of  the  wind, 
the  bawling  of  the  captain  and  crew,  the  shrieking  of  the  pas- 
sengers,  all  mingled  with  the  rolling  and  bellowing  of  the  thun-  i 
der.      In  the  midst  of  the  uproar,  the  sloop  righted;  at  the 
same  time  the  mainsail  shifted,  the  boo_n  came  sweeping  the 


:  T'  j 3  inn 3j  have  bf-pn  thf  bend  at  W^st-Point. 


Ii 


rOLPIF  HEYLI&ER.  281 

quarto-deck,   md  Dolph.  who  was  gazirg  unguardedly  at  the 
clouds,  found  u'mself,  in  a  moment,  floundering  in  the  river. 

For  once  in  his  life,  one  of  his  idle  accomplishments  was  of 
use  to  him.  The  many  truant  hours  which  he  had  devoted  to 
sporting  in  the  Hudson,  had  made  him  an  expert  swimmer; 
yet,  with  all  his  strength  and  skill,  ho  found  great  difficulty  in 
reaching  the  shore.  His  disappearance  from  the  deck  had  not 
been  noticed  by  the  crew,  who  were  all  occupied  by  their  own 
danger.  The  sloop  was  driven  along  with  inconceivable  rapid- 
ity. She  had  hard  work  to  weather  a  long  promontory  on  the 
eastern  shore,  round  which  the  river  turned,  and  which  com- 
pletely shut  her  from  Dolph's  view. 

It  was  on  a  point  of  the  western  shore  that  he  landed,  and, 
scrambling  up  the  rocks,  he  threw  himself,  faint  and  exhausted, 
at  the  foot  of  a  tree.  By  degrees,  the  thunder-gust  passed 
over.  The  clouds  rolled  away  to  the  east,  where  they  lay  piled 
in  feathery  masses,  tinted  with  the  last  rosy  rays  of  the  sun. 
The  distant  play  of  the  lightning  might  be  seen  about  the  dark 
bases,  and  now  and  then  might  be  heard  the  faint  muttering  of 
the  thunder.  Dolph  rose,  and  sought  about  to  see  if  any  path 
led  from  the  shore;  but  all  was  savage  and  trackless.  The 
rocks  were  piled  upon  each  other;  great  trunks  of  trees  lay 
shattered  about,  as  they  had  been  blown  down  by  the  strong 
winds  which  draw  through  these  mountains,  or  had  fallen 
through  age.  The  rocks,  too,  were  overhung  with  wild  vines 
and  briers,  which  completely  matted  themselves  together,  und 
fcposed  a  barrier  to  all  ingress;  every  movement  that  he 
mad",  shook  down  u  shower  from  the  dripping  loliage.  tie 
attempted  to  scale  one  of  these  almost  perpendicular  heights; 
but.  though  strong  and  agile,  he  found  it  an  Herculean  under- 
taking. Often  he  was  supported  merely  by  crumbling  pro- 
jections of  the  rock,  ...id  sometimes  he  clung  to  roots  and 
branches  of  trees,  and  hung  almost  suspended  in  the  air.  The 
wood-pigeon  came  cleaving  his  whistling  flight  by  him,  and 
the  eagle  screamed  from  the  brow  of  the  impending  cliff.  As 
he  was  thus  clambering,  he  was  on  the  point  of  seizing  hold  of 
a  shrub  to  aid  his  ascent,  when  something  .  ustled  among  tho 
leaves,  and  he  saw  a  si^ike  quivering  along  like  lightning, 
almost  from  under  his  hand.  It  coiled  itself  up  immediately, 
in  an  attitude  of  defiance,  wmi  flattened  head,  distended  jaws, 
and  quickly-vibrating  tongue,  that  played  like  a  little  flame 
about  its  mouth.  Dolph's  h .  tlic  turned  faint  within  him,  and 
he  had  well-nigh  let  go  his  hold,  and  tumbled  down  the  preci- 


0S2  .URACF.BIUDGE  BALL. 

pice.  The  serpent  stood  on  the  defensive  but  for  an  instant ;  it 
was  an  instinctive  movement  of  defence;  and  finding  there 
was  no  attack,  it  glided  away  into  a  cleft  of  the  rock.  Dolph's 
eye  followed  with  fearful  intensity ;  and  he  saw  at  a  glance 
that  he  was  in  the  vicinity  of  a  nest  of  adders,  that  lay  knot- 
ted, and  writhing,  and  hissing  in  the  chasm.  He  hastened 
with  all  speed  to  escape  from  so  frightful  a  neighbourhood. 
His  imagination  was  full  of  this  new  horror;  he  saw  an  adder- 
in  every  curling  vine,  and  heard  the  tail  of  a  rattlesnake  in 
every  dry  leaf  that  rustled. 

At  length  he  succeeded  in  scrambling  to  the  summit  of  a 
precipice ;  but  it  was  covered  by  a  dense  forest.  Wherever  he 
could  gain  a  look-out  between  the  trees,  he  saw  that  the  coast 
rose  in  heights  and  cliffs,  one  rising  beyond  another,  until 
huge  mountains  overtopped  the  whole.  There  were  no  signs 
of  cultivation,  nor  any  smoke  curling  amongst  the  trees,  to 
indicate  a  human  residence.  Every  thing  was  wild  and  solitary. 
As  he  was  standing  on  the  edge  of  a  precipice  that  overlooked 
a  deep  ravine  fringed  with  trees,  his  feet  detached  a  great  frag-/ 
ment  of  rock;  it  fell,  crashing  its  way  through  the  tree  tops, 
down  into  the  chasm.  A  loud  whoop,  or  rather  yell,  issued 
from  the  bottom  of  the  glen ;  the  moment  after,  there  was  the 
report  of  a  gun:  and  a  ball  came  whistling  over  his  head, 
cutting  the  twigs  and  leaves,  and  burying  itself  deep  in  the 
bark  of  a  chestnut-tree. 

Dolph  did  not  wait  for  a  second  shot,  but  made  a  precipitate 
retreat ;  fearing  every  moment  to  hear  the  enemy  in  pursuit. 
He  succeeded,  however,  in  returning  unmolested  to  the  shore, 
and  determined  to  penetrate  no  farther  into  a  country  so  beset 
with  savage  perils. 

He  sat  himself  down,  dripping,  disconsolately,  on  a  wet  stone. 
What  was  to  be  done?  Where  was  he  to  shelter  himself?  The 
hour  of  repose  was  approaching ;  the  birds  were  seeking  their 
nests,  the  bat  be;;:m  to  flit  about  in  the  twilight,  and  the  night- 
hawk  soaring  high  in  heaven,  seemed  to  be  calling  out  the  stars. 
Night  gradually  closed  in,  and  wrapped  every  thing  in  gloom; 
and  though  it  was  the  latter  part  of  summer,  yet  the  breeze, 
stealing  along  the  river,  and  among  these  dripping  forests,  was 
chilly  and  penetrating,  especially  to  a  half -drowned  man. 

As  he  sat  drooping  and  despondent  in  this  comfortless  con- 
dition, he  perceived  a  light  gleaming  through  the  trees  near 
the  shore,  where  the  winding  of  the  river  made  a  deep  bay.   It  J 
cheered  him  with  the  hopes  that  here  might  be  some  human 


DOLPP  HE7LIGER.  283 

habitation,  where  he  might  get  something  to  appease  the  clam- 
orous cravings  of  his  stomach,  and,  what  was  equally  neces- 
sary in  his  shipwrecked  condition,  a  comfortable  shelter 
for  the  night.  It  was  with  extreme  difficulty  that  he  mp.de 
his  way  towards  the  light,  along  ledges  of  rocks  down 
which  he  was  in  danger  of  sliding  into  the  river,  and  over 
great  trunks  of  fallen  trees;  some  of  which  had  been  blown 
down  in  the  late  storm,  and  lay  so  thickly  together,  that 
he  had  to  struggle  through  their  branches.  At  length  he  came 
to  the  brow  of  a  rock  that  overhung  a  small  dell,  from  whence 
the  light  proceeded.  It  was  from  a  fire  at  the  foot  of  a  great 
tree,  that  stood  in  the  midst  of  a  grassy  interval,  or  plat, 
among  the  rocks.  The  fire  cast  up  a  red  glare  among  the  gray 
crags  and  impending  trees ;  leaving  chasms  of  deep  gloom,  that 
resembled  entrances  to  caverns.  A  small  brook  rippled  close 
by,  betrayed  by  the  quivering  reflection  of  the  flame.  There 
were  two  figures  moving  about  the  fire,  and  others  squatted 
before  it.  As  they  were  between  him  and  the  light,  they  were 
in  complete  shadow ;  but  one  of  them  happening  to  move  round 
to  the  opposite  side,  Dolph  was  startled  at  perceiving,  by  the 
full  glare  falling  on  painted  features,  and  glittering  on  silver 
ornaments,  that  he  was  an  Indian.  He  now  looked  more  nar- 
rowly, and  saw  guns  leaning  against  a  tree,  and  a  dead  body 
lying  on  the  ground. 

Dolph  began  to  doubt  whether  he  was  not  in  a  worse  condi- 
tion than  before ;  here  was  the  very  foe  that  had  fired  at  him 
from  the  glen.  He  endeavoured  to  retreat  quietly,  not  caring  to 
entrust  himself  to  these  half-  human  beings  in  so  savage  and 
lonely  a  place.  It  was  too  late:  the  Indian,  with  that  eagle 
quickness  of  eye  so  remarkable  in  his  race,  perceived  something 
stirring  among  the  bushes  on  the  rock :  he  seized  one  of  the 
guns  that  leaned  against  the  tree;  one  moment  more,  and  Dolph 
might  have  had  his  passion  for  adventure  cured  by  a  bullet." 
He  hallooed  loudly,  with  the  Indian  salutation  of  friendship: 
the  whole  party  sprang  upon  their  feet;  the  salutation  was 
returned,  and  the  straggler  was  invited  to  join  them  at  the 
fire. 

On  approaching,  he  found,  to  his  consolation,  that  the  party 
was  composed  of  white  men  as  well  as  Indians.  One,  who  was 
evidently  the  principal  ]w>rs.  >nage,  or  command*  seated 

on  the  trunk  of  a  tree  before  the  fire.     He  was  a  laj 
man,  somewhat  advanced  in  life,  but  hale  and  hearty.     His 
face  was  bronzed  almost  to  the  colour  of  an  Indian's ;  he  had 


284  BRACEBRWGE  HALL. 

strong  but  rather  jovial  features,  an  aquiline  nose,  and  a  mouth 
shaped  like  a  mastiff's.     His  face  was  half  thrown  in  shade 
by  a  broad  hat,  with  a  buck's-tail  in  it.     His  gray  hair  huna 
short  in  his  neck.     He  wore  a  hunting-frock,  with  Indian  le*| 
gings,  and  moccasons,  and  a  tomahawk  in  the  broad  wampum 
belt  round  his  waist.     As  Dolph  caught  a  distinct  view  of  his 
person  and  features    lie  was  struck  with  something  that  re- 
minded him  of  the  old  man  of  the  haunted  house.     The  mail 
before  him,  however,  was  different  in  his  dress  and  age;  lie 
was  more  cheery,  too,  in  his  aspect,  and  it  was  hard  to  define! 
where  the  vague  resemblance  lay— but  a  resemblance  then m<t~ 
tainly  was.    Dolph  felt  some  degree  of  awe  in  approaching  him 
but  was  assured  by  the  frank,  hearty  welcome  with  whieh  lie 
was  received.    As  he  case  his  eyes  about,  too,  he  was  still  further  . 
encouraged,   by  perceiving  that  the  dead  body,    which  had 
caused  him  some  alarm,  was  that  of  a  deer;  and  his  satisfac- 
tion   was  complete,    in    discerning,    by  the    savour y   steams 
which  issued  from  a  kettle  suspended  by  a  hooked  stick  over 
the  fire,  that  there  was  a  part  cooking  for  the  evening's  repast. 

He  now  found  that  he  had  fallen  in  with  a  rambling  hunting 
party,  such  as  often  took  place  in  those  days  among  the  set- 
tlers along  the  river.  The  hunter  is  always  hospitable:  and 
nothing  makes  men  more  social  and  unceremonious,  thanm  \  t- 
ing  in  the  wilderness.  The  commander  of  the  party  poured 
him  out  a  dram  of  cheering  liquor,  which  he  gave  him  with 
merry  leer,  to  warm  his  heart ;  and  ordered  one  of  his  follow 
ers  to  fetch  some  garments  from  a  pinnace,  which  was  moore 
in  a  cove  close  by,  while  those  in  which  our  hero  was  drippii 
might  be  dried  before  the  fire. 

Dolph  found,  as  he  had  suspected,  that  the  shot  from  the 
glen,  which  had  come  so  near  giving  him  his  quietus  when  on 
the  precipice,  was  from  the  party  before  him.  He  had  nearly 
crushed  one  of  them  by  the  fragment  of  rock  which  he  had 
detached ;  and  the  jovial  old  hunter,  in  the  broad  hat  and  buck- 
tail,  had  fired  at  the  place  where  he  saw  the  bushes  move,  sup- 
posing it  to  be  some  wild  animal.  He  laughed  heartily  at  the 
blunder:;  it  being  what  is  considered  an  exceeding  good  joke 
among  hunters;  "but  faith,  my  lad,"  said  he,  "if  I  had  but 
caught  a  glimpse  of  you  to  take  sight  at,  you  would  have  fol- 
lowed the  rock.  Antony  Vander  Heyden  is  seldom  known  to 
miss  his  aim."  These  last  words  were  at  once  a  clue  to  Dolph's 
curiosity;  and  a  few  questions  let  him  completely  into  the 
character  of  the  man  before  him,  and  of  his  band  of  woodland 


DOLPll  1IEYL1GER.  285 

rangers.  The  commander  in  the  broad  hat  and  hunting-frock 
was  no  less  a  personage  than  the  Heer  Antony  Yander  Hey  den, 
of  Albany,  of  whom  Dolph  had  many  a  time  heard.  He  was, 
in  fact,  the  hero  of  many  a  story;  being  a  man  of  singular 
humours  and  whimsical  habits,  that  were  matters  of  wonder 
to  his  quiet  Dutch  neighbours.  As  he  was  a  man  of  property, 
having  had  a  father  before  him,  from  whom  he  inherited  large 
tracts  of  wild  land,  and  whole  barrels  full  of  wampum,  he  could 
indulge  his  humours  without  control.  Instead  of  staying  quietly 
at  home,  eating  and  drinking  at  regular  meal  times ;  amusing 
himself  by  smoking  his  pipe  on  the  bench  before  the  door,  and 
then  turning  into  a  comfortable  bed  at  night ;  he  delighted  in 
all  kinds  of  rough,  wild  expeditions.  He  was  never  so  happy 
as  when  on  a  hunting  party  in  the  wilderness,  sleeping  under 
trees  or  bark  sheds,  or  cruising  down  the  river,  or  on  some  wood- 
land lake,  fishing  and  fowling,  and  living  the  Lord  knows  how. 

He  was  a  great  friend  to  Indians,  and  to  an  Indian  mode  ol 
life ;  winch  he  considered  true  natural  liberty  and  manly  enjoy- 
ment. When  at  home,  he  had  always  several  Indian  hangers- 
on,  who  loitered  about  his  house,  sleeping  like  hounds  in  the 
sunshine,  or  preparing  hunting  and  fishing-tackle  for  some  new 
expedition,  or  shooting  at  marks  with  bows  and  arrows. 

Over  these  vagrant  beings,  Heer  Antony  had  as  perfect  com- 
mand as  a  huntsman  over  his  pack ;  though  they  were  great 
nuisances  to  the  regular  people  of  his  neighbourhood.  As  he 
was  a  rich  man.  no  one  ventured  to  thwart  his  humours;  in- 
deed, he  had  a  hearty,  joyous  manner  about  him,  that  made 
him  universally  popular.  He  would  troll  a  Dutch  song,  as  he 
tramped  along  the  street;  hail  every  one  a  mile  off;  and  when 
he  entered  a  house,  he  would  slap  the  good  man  familiarly  on 
the  back,  shake  him  by  the  hand  till  he  roared,  and  kiss  his 
wife  and  daughters  before  his  face — in  short,  there  was  no  pride 
nor  ill-humour  about  Heer  Antony. 

Besides  his  Indian  hangers-on,  he  had  three  or  four  huml >V 
friends  among  the  white  men,  who  looked  up  to  him  as  a  patron, 
and  had  the  run  of  his  kitchen,  and  the  favour  of  being  taken 
with  him  occasionally  on  his  expeditions.  It  was  with  a  med- 
ley of  such  retainers  that  he  was  at  present  on  a  cruise  along 
the  shores  of  the  Hudson,  in  a  pinnace  which  he  kept  for  his 
own  recreation.  There  were  two  white  men  with  him,  dressed 
partly  in  the  Indian  style,  with  moccasons  and  hunting-shirts ; 
the  rest  of  his  crew  consisted  of  tour  favourite  Indians.  They 
had  been  prowling  about  the  river,  without  any  definite  object 


286  BHACEBKIDGE  HALL. 

until  they  found  themselves  in  tne  highlands ;  where  they  had 
passed  two  or  three  days,  hunting  the  deer  which  still  lingered 
among  these  mountains. 

"It  is  a  lucky  circumstance,  young  man,"  said  Antony 
Vander  Hey  den,  "that  you  happened  to  be  knocked  overboard 
to-day,  as  to-morrow  morning  we  start  early  on  our  return 
homewards,  and  you  might  then  have  looked  in  vain  for  a  meal 
among  the  mountains — but  come,  lads,  stir  about!  stirabout! 
Let's  see  what  prog  we  have  for  supper ;  the  kettle  has  boiled 
long  enough ;  my  stomach  cries  cupboard ;  and  I'll  warrant  our 
guest  is  in  no  mood  to  dally  with  his  trencher." 

There  was  a  bustle  now  in  the  little  encampment.  One  took 
off  the  kettle,  and  turned  a  part  of  the  contents  into  a  huge 
wooden  bowl ;  another  prepared  a  flat  rock  for  a  table ;  while  a 
third  brought  various  utensils  from  the  pinnace,  which  was 
moored  close  by ;  and  Heer  Antony  himself  brought  a  flask  or 
two  of  precious  liquor  from  his  own  private  locker — knowing 
his  boon  companions  too  well  to  trust  any  of  them  with  the  key. 

A  rude  but  hearty  repast  was  soon  spread;  consisting  or 
venison  smoking  from  the  kettle,  with  cold  bacon,  boiled  Indian 
corn,  and  mighty  loaves  of  good  brown  household  bread.  Never 
had  Dolph  made  a  more  delicious  repast ;  and  when  he  had 
washed  it  down  with  two  or  three  draughts  from  the  Heer 
Antony's  flask,  and  felt  the  jolly  liquor  sending  its  warmth 
through  his  veins,  and  glowing  round  ais  very  heart,  he  would 
not  have  changed  his  situation,  no,  not  with  the  governor  of 
the  province. 

The  Heer  Antony,  too.  grew  chirping  and  joyous ;  told  half- 
a-dozen  fat  stories,  at  which  his  white  followers  laughed 
immoderately,  though  the  Indians,  as  usual,  maintained  an 
invincible  gravity. 

"  This  is  your  true  life,  my  boy!"  said  he,  slapping  Dolph  on 
the  shoulder ;  "  a  man  is  never  a  man  till  he  can  defy  wind  and 
weather,  range  woods  and  wilds,  sleep  under  a  tree,  and  live 
on  bass-wood  leaves !" 

And  then  would  he  sing  a  stave  or  two  of  a  Dutch  drinking 
song,  swaying  a  short  squab  Dutch  bottle  in  his  hand,  while 
his  myrmidons  would  join  in  chorus,  until  the  woods  echoed 
again ; — as  the  good  old  song  has  it : 

"  They  all  with  a  shout  made  the  elements  ring, 
So  soon  as  the  office  was  o'er; 
To  feasting  they  went  with  true  merriment, 
And  tippled  strong  liquor  gillore." 


DOLPH  IIEYLIGER.  287 

In  the  midst  of  his  jovialty,  however,  Heer  Antony  did  no 
lose  sight  of  discretion.  Though  he  pushed  the  bottle  with  (nit 
reserve  to  Dolph,  yet  he  always  took  care  to  help  his  followers 
himself,  knowing  the  beings  he  had  to  deal  with ;  and  he  was 
particular  in  granting  but  a  moderate  allowance  to  the  Indians. 
The  repast  being  ended,  the  Indians  having  drunk  their  liquor 
ami  smoked  their  pipes,  now  wrapped  themselves  in  their 
blankets,  stretched  themselves  on  the  ground  with  their  feet  to 
the  fire,  and  soon  fell  asleep,  like  so  many  tired  hounds.  The 
rest  of  the  party  remained  chatting  before  the  fire,  which  the 
gloom  of  the  forest,  and  the  dampness  of  the  air  from  the  late 
storm,  rendered  extremely  grateful  and  comforting.  The  con- 
versation gradually  moderated  from  the  hilarity  of  supper-time, 
and  turned  upon  hunting  adventures,  and  exploits  and  perils 
in  the  wilderness ;  many  of  which  were  so  strange  and  improb- 
able, that  I  will  not  venture  to  repeat  them,  lest  the  veracity 
of  Antony  Vander  Heyaen  and  his  comrades  should  be  brought 
into  question.  There  were  many  legendary  tales  told,  also, 
about  the  river,  and  the  settlements  on  its  borders ;  in  which 
valuable  kind  of  lore,  the  Heer  Antony  seemed  deeply  versed. 
.As  the  sturdy  bush-oeater  sat  in  the  twisted  root  of#a  tree,  that 
served  him  for  a  kind  of  arm-chair,  dealing  forth  these  wild 
stories,  with  the  fire  gleaming  on  Ins  strongly-marked  visage, 
Dolph  was  again  repeatedly  perplexed  by  something  that  re- 
minded Mm.  of  the  phantom  of  the  haunted  house ;  some  vague 
resemblance,  that  could  not  be  fixed  upon  any  precise  feature 
or  lineament,  but  which  pervaded  the  general  ah'  of  his  coun- 
tenance and  figure. 

The  circumstance  of  Dolph's  falling  overboard  being  again 
discussed,  led  to  the  relation  of  divers  disasters  and  singular 
mishaps  that  had  befallen  voyagers  on  this  great  river,  particu- 
larly in  the  earlier  periods  of  colonial  history ;  most  of  which 
the  Heer  deliberately  attributed  to  supernatural  causes.  Dolph 
stared  at  this  suggestion ;  but  the  old  gentleman  assured  him 
that  it  was  very  currently  believed  by  the  settlers  along  the 
river,  that  these  highlands  were  under  the  dominion  of  super- 
natural and  mischievous  beings,  which  seemed  to  have  taken 
some  pique  against  the  Dutch  colonists  in  the  early  time  of  the 
settlement.  In  consequence  of  this,  they  have  ever  since  taken 
particular  delight  in  venting  their  spleen,  and  indulging  their 
humours,  upon  the  Dutch  skippers ;  bothering  them  with  flaws, 
head  winds,  counter  currents,  and  all  kinds  of  impediments , 
insomuch,  that  a  Dutch  navigator  was  always  obliged  to  be 


/  i  IL 1  CJJURi'D GE  HA  LL. 


exceedingly  wary  and  deliberate  in  his  proceedings ;  to  come  to 
anchor  at  dusk ;  to  drop  his  peak,  or  take  in  sail,  whenever  he 
saw  a  swag-bellied  cloud  rolling  over  the  mountains ,  in  short, 
to  take  so  many  precautions,  that  he  was  often  apt  to  be  an 
incredible  time  in  toiling  up  the  river. 

ae,  he  said,  believed  these  mischievous  powers  of  the  air 
to  be  evil  spirits  eonjured  up  by  the  Indian  wizards,  hi  the  early 
times  of  the  province,  to  revenge  themselves  on  the  strangers 
who  had  dispossessed  them  of  their  country.  They  even 
attributed  to  their  incantations  the  misadventure  winch  befell 
the  renowned  Hendrick  Hudson,  when  he  sailed  so  gallantly  up 
this  river  in  quest  of  a  north-west  passage,  and,  as  he  thought, 
run  his  ship  aground ;  which  they  affirm  was  nothing  more  nor 
less  than  a  spell  of  these  same  wizards,  to  prevent  his  getting 
to  China  in  tins  direction. 

The  greater  part,  however,  Heer  Antony  observed,  accounted 
for  .nil  the  extraordinary  circumstances  attending  this  river, 
and  the  perplexities  of  the  skippers  which  navigated  it,  by  the 
old  legend  of  the  Storm-ship,  which  haunted  Point-no-point. 
On  finding  Dolph  to  be  utterly  ignorant  of  this  tradition,  the 
Heer  stared  at  him  for  a  moment  with  surprise,  and  wrmdered 
where  he  had  passed  his  life,  to  be  uninformed  on  so  important 
a  point  of  history.  To  pass  away  the  remainder  of  the  even- 
ing, therefore,  he  undertook  the  tale,  as  far  as  his  memory 
would  serve,  in  the  very  words  in  which  it  had  been  written 
out  by  Mynheer  Selyne,  an  early  poet  of  the  New-Nederlandts. 
Giving,  then,  a  stir  to  the  fire,  that  sent  up  its  sparks  among 
the  trees  like  a  little  volcano,  he  adjusted  himself  comfortably 
in  his  root  of  a  tree ;  and  throwing  back  his  head,  and  closing 
his  eyes  for  a  few  moments,  to  summon  up  his  recollection,  he 
related  the  following  legend. 


THE  STORM-SHIP. 


In  the  golden  age  of  the  province  of  the  New-Netherlands, 
when  it  was  under  the  sway  of  Wouter  Van  Twiller,  otherwise 
called  the  Doubter,  the  people  of  the  Manhattoes  were  alarmed, 
one  sultry  afternoon,  just  about  the  time  of  the  summer  solstice, 
by  a  tremendous  storm  of  thunder  and  lightning.  The  rain 
descended  in  such  torrents,  as  absolutely  to  spatter  up  and 


THE  STORM  snip  289 

Mitioke  along  the  ground.  It  seemed  as  if  the  thunder  rattled 
and  rolled  over  the  very  roofs  of  the  houses;  the  lightning  was 
seen  to  play  about  the  church  of  St.  Nicholas,  and  to  strive  three 
times,  in  vain,  to  strike  its  weather-cock.  Garret  Van  Home's 
new  chimney  was  split  almost  from  top  to  bottom ;  and  Doffue 
Mildeberger  was  struck  speechless  from  his  bald-faced  mare, 
just  as  he  was  riding  into  town.  In  a  word,  it  was  one  of  those 
unparalleled  storms,  that  only  happen  once  within  the  memory 
of  that  venerable  personage,  known  in  all  towns  by  the  appella 
tion  of  uthe  oldest  inhabitant." 

Great  was  the  terror  of  the  good  old  women  of  the  Manhat 
toes.  They  gathered  their  children  together,  and  took  refuge 
in  the  cellars ;  after  having  hung  a  shoe  on  the  iron  point  of 
every  bed-post,  lest  it  shoidd  attract  the  lightning.  At  length 
the  storm  abated :  the  thunder  sunk  into  a  growl ;  and  the  set- 
ting sun,  breaking  from  under  the  fringed  borders  of  the  clouds, 
made  the  broad  bosom  of  the  bay  to  gleam  like  a  sea  of  molten 
gold. 

The  word  was  given  from  the  fort,  that  a  ship  was  standing 
up  the  bay.  It  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth,  and  street  to 
street,  and  soon  put  the  little  capital  in  a  bustle.  The  arrivai 
of  a  ship,  in  those  early  times  of  the  settlement,  was  an  event 
ot  vast  importance  to  the  inhabitants.  It  brought  them  news 
from  tne  old  world,  from  the  land  of  their  birth,  from  which 
they  were  so  completely  severed :  to  the  yearly  ship,  too,  they 
looked  for  their  supply  of  luxuries,  of  finery,  of  comforts,  and 
almost  of  necessaries.  The  good  vrouw  could  not  have  her 
new  cap,  nor  new  gown,  until  the  arrival  of  the  ship ;  the  artist 
waited  for  it  for  his  tools,  the  burgomaster  for  his  pipe  and  his 
supply  of  Hollands,  the  school-boy  for  his  top  and  marbles,  and 
the  lordly  landholder  for  the  bricks  with  which  he  was  to  build 
his  new  mansion.  Thus  every  one,  rich  and  poor,  great  and 
small,  looked  out  for  the  arrival  of  the  ship.  It  was  the  great 
yearly  event  of  the  town  of  New- Amsterdam ;  and  from  one- 
end  of  the  year  to  the  other,  the  ship— the  ship — the  ship — was 
the  continual  topic  of  conversation. 

The  news  from  the  fort,  therefore,  brought  all  the  populace 
down  to  the  battery,  to  behold  the  wished-for  sight.  It  was 
not  exactly  the  time  when  she  had  been  expected  to  arrive,  and 
the  circumstance  was  a  matter  of  some  speculation.  Many 
v.  ere  the  groups  collected  about  the  battery.  Here  and  there 
might  be  seen  a  burgomaster,  of  slow  and  pompous  gravity, 
giving  his  opinion  with  great  confidence  to  a  crowd  of  old 


290  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

women  and  idle  boys.  At  another  place  was  a  knot  of  old 
weather-beaten  fellows,  who  had  been  seamen  or  fishermen  in 
their  times,  and  were  great  authorities  on  such  occasions;  these 
gave  different  opinions,  and  caused  great  disputes  among  their 
several  adherents :  but  the  man  most  looked  up  to,  and  f oUowed 
and  watched  by  the  crowd,  was  Hans  Van  Pelt,  an  old  Dutch 
3ea-captain  retired  from  service,  the  nautical  oracle  of  the 
place.  He  reconnoitred  the  ship  through  an  ancient  telescope 
covered  with  tarry  canvas,  hummed  a  Dutch  tune  to  himself' 
and  said  nothing.  A  hum,  however,  from  Hans  Van  Pelt  had 
always  more  weight  with  the  public  than  a  speech  from  an- 
other man. 

In  the  meantime,  the  ship  became  more  distincUo  the  naked 
eye:  she  was  a  stout,  round  Dutch-built  vessel,  with  high  bow 
and  poop,  and  bearing  Dutch  colours.  The  evening  sun  gilded 
her  bellying  canvas,  as  she  came  riding  over  tne  long  waving 
billows.  The  sentinel  who  had  given  noti'ce  of  her  approach, 
declared,  that  he  first  got  sig.ht  of  her  when  she  was  in  the  cen- 
tre of  the  bay ;  and  that  she  broke  suddenly  on  his  sight,  just 
as  if  she  had  come  out  of  the  bosom  ot  the  black  thunder-cloud. 
The  bystanders  looked  at  Hans  Van  Pelt,  to  see  what  he  would 
say  to  this  report:  Hans  Van  Pelt  screwed  his  mouth  closer  to- 
gether, and  said  nothing;  upon  which  some  shook  their  heads, 
and  others  shrugged  their  shoulders. 

The  ship  was  now  repeatedly  hailed,  but  made  no  reply,  and, 
passing  by  the  fort,  stood  on  up  the  Hudson.     A  gun  was 
brought  to  bear  on  her,  and,  with  some  difficulty,  loaded  and 
fired  by  Hans  Van  Pelt,  tne  garrison  not  being  expert  in  artil- 
lery.    The  shot  seemed  absolutely  to  pass  through  the  ship,  and 
to  skip  along  the  water  on  the  other  side,  but  no  notice  was  taken 
of  it!    What  was  strange,  she  had  all  her  sails  set,  and  sailed 
right  against  wind  and  tide,  which  were  both  down  the  river. 
Upon  this  Hans  Van  Pelt,  who  was  likewise  harbour-master* 
ordered  his  boat,  and  set  off  to  board  her;  but  after  rowing 
two  or  three  hours,  he  returned  without  success.     Sometimes 
he  would  get  within  one  or  two  hundred  yards  of  her,  and 
then,  in  a  twinkling,  she  would  be  half  a  mile  off.     Some  said 
it  was  because  his  oarsmen,  who  were  rather  pursy  and  short- 
winded,  stopped  every  now  and  then  to  take  breath,  and  spit 
on  their  hands;  but  this,  it  is  probable,  was  a  mere  scandal. 
He  got  near  enough,  however,  to  see  the  crew;  who  were  all 
dressed  in  the  Dutch  style,  the  officers  in  doublets  and  high 
hats  and  feathers:  not  a  wo^dwas  spoken  by  any  one  on  board: 


THE  STORM-SHIP.  291 

they  stood  as  motionless  as  so  many  statues,  and  the  ship 
seemed  as  if  left  to  her  own  government.  Tims  she  kept  on, 
away  up  the  river,  lessening  and  lessening  in  the  evening  sun- 
shine, until  she  faded  from  sight,  like  a  little  white  cloud  melt- 
ing away  in  the  summer  sky. 

The  appearance  of  this  ship  threw  the  governor  into  one  of 
the  deepest  doubts  that  ever  beset  him  in  the  whole  course  of 
his  administration.  Fears  were  entertained  for  the  security 
of  the  infant  settlements  on  the  river,  lest  this  might  be  an 
enemy's  ship  in  disguise,  sent  to  take  possession.  The  gover- 
nor called  together  his  council  repeatedly  to  assist  him  with 
their  conjectures.  He  sat  in  his  chair  of  state,  built  of  timber 
from  the  sacred  forest  of  the  Hague,  and  smoking  his  long  jas- 
mine pipe,  and  listened  to  all  that  his  counsellors  had  to  say  on 
a  subject  about  which  they  knew  nothing;  but,  in  spite  of  all 
the  conjecturing  of  the  sagest  and  oldest  heads,  the  governor 
still  continued  to  doubt. 

Messengers  were  despatched  to  different  places  on  the  river ; 
but  they  returned  without  any  tidings— the  ship  had  made  no 
port.  Day  after  day,  and  week  after  week,  elapsed;  but  she 
never  returned  down  the  Hudccn.  As,  however,  the-  council 
seemed  solicitous  for  intelligence,  they  had  it  in  abundance. 
The  captains  of  the  sloops  seldom  arrived  without  bringing 
6ome  report  of  having  seen  the  strange  ship  at  different  parts 
of  the  river;  sometimes  near  the  Palisadoes;  sometimes  off 
Croton  Point,  and  sometimes  in  the  highlands ;  but  she  never 
was  reported  as  having  been  seen  above  the  highlands.  The 
crews  of  the  sloops,  it  is  true,  generally  differed  among  them- 
selves in  their  accounts  of  these  apparitions;  but  they  may 
have  arisen  from  the  uncertain  situations  in  which  they  saw 
her.  Sometimes  it  was  by  the  flashes  of  the  thunder-storm 
lighting  up  a  pitchy  night,  and  giving  glimpses  of  her  careering 
across  Tappaan  Zee,  or  the  wide  waste  of  Haverstraw  Bay.  At 
one  moment  she  would  appear  close  upon  them,  as  if  likely  to 
run  them  down,  and  would  throw  them  into  great  bustle  and 
alarm;  but  the  next  flash  would  show  her  far  off.  always  sail 
ing  against  the  wind.  Sometimes,  in  quiet  moonlight  nights, 
she  would  be  seen  under  some  high  bluff  of  the  highlands,  all 
in  deep  shadow,  excepting  her  top-sails  glittering  in  the  moon- 
beams; by  the  time,  however,  that  the  voyagers  would  reach 
the  place,  there  would  be  no  ship  to  be  seen ;  and  when  they 
had  passed  on  for  some  distance,  and  looked  back,  behold! 
there  she  was  again  with  bei  t^p-sails  in  the  moonshine  1    Her 


292  BRACBBRWGE  HALL. 

appearance  was  always  just  after,  or  just  before,  or  just  in  the 
midst  of,  unruly  weather;  and  she  was  known  by  all  the  skip- 
pers and  voyagers  of  the  Hudson,  by  the  name  of  "the  storm 
ship." 

These  reports  perplexed  the  governor  and  his  council  more 
than  ever ;  and  it  would  be  endless  to  repeat  the  conjectures 
and  opinions  that  were  uttered  on  the  subject.     Some  quoted 
9  in  point,  of  ships  seen  off  the  coast   of  New-England, 
navigated  by  witches  and  goblins.     Old  Hans  Van  Pelt,  whx 
had  been  more  than  once  to  the  Dutch  colony  at  the  Cape  of 
Good  Hope,  insisted  that  this  must  be  the  Flying  Dutchmai 
which  had  so  long  haunted  Table  Bay,  but.  being  unable 
make  port,  had  now  sought  another   harbour.     Others  sug- 
gested, that,  if  it  really  was  a  supernatural  apparition,  as  thei 
was  every  natural  reason  to  believe,  it   might   be  Hendricl 
Hudson,  and  his  crew  of  the  Half -Moon;   who,  it  was  well- 
known,  had  once  run  aground  in  the  upper  part  of  the  river,  h 
seeking  a  north- wot  passage  to  China.     This  opinion  had  vei 
little  weight  with  the  governor,  but  it  passed  current  out  of 
doors ;  for  indeed  it  had  already  been  reported,  that  Hendricl 
Hudson  and  his  crew  haunted  the  Kaatskill  Mountain;  and  it 
appeared  very  reasonable  to  suppose,  that  his  ship  might  infest 
the  river,  where  the  enterprise  was  baffled,  or  that  it  might 
bear  the  shadowy  crew  to  their  periodical  revels  in  the  moun- 
tain. 

Other  events  occurred  to  occupy  the  thoughts  and  doubts  of 
the  sage  Wouter  and  his  council,  and  the  storm-ship  ceased 
be  a  subject  of  deliberation  at  the  board.  It  continued,  how- 
ever, to  be  a  matter  of  popular  belief  and  marvellous  anecdot 
through  the  whole  time  of  the  Dutch  government,  and  particu- 
larly just  before  the  capture  of  New- Amsterdam,  and  the  sut 
jugation  of  the  province  by  the  English  squadron.  About  that 
time  the  storm-ship  was  repeatedly  seen  in  the  Tappaan  Zee, 
and  about  Weehawk,  and  even  down  as  far  as  Hoboken ;  and 
her  appearance  was  supposed  to  be  ominous  of  the  approaching 
squall  in  public  affairs,  and  the  downfall  of  Dutch  domination. 

Since  that  time,  we  have  no  authentic  accounts  of  her, 
though  it  is  said  she  still  haunts  the  highlands  and  cruises 
about  Point-no-point.  People  who  live  along  the  river,  insist 
that  they  sometimes  see  her  in  summer  moonlight ;  and  that  in 
a  deep  still  midnight,  they  have  heard  the  chant  of  her  crew, 
as  if  heaving  the  lead ;  but  sights  and  sounds  are  so  deceptive 
along  the  mountainous  shores,  and  about  the  wide  bays  and 


THE  STORM-SHIP.  '     293 

long  reaches  of  this  gr<  at  ri\  -.-.  that  I  confess  I  have  very 
strong  doubts  upon  the  subject. 

It  is  certain,  never tlk  npro  things  have  been  seen 

in  these  highlands  in  storm  \.  which  are  considered  as  connected 
with  the  old  story  of  the  snip.  The  captains  of  the  river  craft 
talk  of  a  little  bulbous-bottomed  Dutch  goblin,  in  trunk  hose 
and  sugar-loafed  hat.  wit!'  king  trumpet  in  his  hand, 

which  they  say  keeps  about  the  Dunderberg.*  They  declare 
they  have  heard  him.  in  stormy  weather,  in  the  midst  of  the 
turmoil,  giving  orders  in  Low  Dutch  for  the  piping  up  of  a 
fresh  gust  of  wind,  or  the  rattling  off  of  another  thunder-clap 
That  sometimes  he  has  been  seen  surrounded  by  a  crew  of  little 
imps  in  broad  breeches  and  short  doublets ;  tumbling  head-over 
heels  in  the  rack  and  mist,  and  playing  a  thousand  gambols  in 
the  air ;  or  buzzing  like  a  swarm  of  flies  about  Antony  s  Nose ; 
and  that,  at  such  times,  the  hurry-scurry  of  the  storm  was 
always  greatest.  One  time,  a  sloop,  in  passing  by  the  Dunder- 
berg. was  overtaken  by  a  thunder-gust,  that  came  scouring 
round  the  mountain,  and  seemed  to  burst  just  over  the  vessel. 
:  Though  tight  and  well  ballasted,  yet  she  laboured  dreadfully, 
until  the  water  came  over  the  gunwale.  All  the  crew  were 
amazed,  when  it  was  discovered  that  there  was  a  little  white 
sugar-loaf  hat  on  the  mast-head,  which  was  known  at  once  to 
be  that  of  the  Heer  of  the  Dunderberg.  Nobody,  however, 
dared  to  climb  to  the  mast-head,  and  get  rid  of  this  terrible 
pat.  The  sloop  continued  labouring  and  rocking,  as  if  she 
would  have  rolled  her  mast  overboard.  She  seemed  in  con- 
tinual danger  either  of  upsetting  or  of  running  on  shore.  In 
tins  way  she  drove  quite  through  the  highlands,  until  she  had 
passed  Pollopol's  Island,  where,  it  is  said,  the  jurisdiction  "i 
the  Dunderberg  potentate  ceases.  No  sooner  had  she  passed 
this  bourne,  than  the  little  hat.  all  at  once,  spun  up  into  the  air 
like  a  top,  whirled  up  all  the  clouds  into  a  vortex,  and  hurried 
them  back  to  the  summit  of  the  Dunderberg,  while  the  sloop 
righted  herself,  and  sailed  <>u  as  quietly  as  if  in  a  mill-pond, 
Nothing  saved  her  from  utter  wreck,  but  the  fortunate  circum 
stance  of  having  a  horse-shoe  nailed  against  the  mast— a  wise 
precaution  against  evil  spirits,  which  h  sen  adopted  by 

all  the  Dutch  captains  that  navigate  this  haunted  river. 
There  is  another  story  told  of  this  foul-weather  urchin,  by 


*  i.e.,  the  ,v  Thunder-Mountain."  so  called  from  its  echoes. 


294     *  BRAGEBRIDOE  BALL. 

Skipper  Daniel  Ouslestick^r,  of  Fish-Hill,  who  was  never  known 
to  tell  a  lie.  He  declared,  that,  in  a  severe  squall,  he  saw  him 
seated  astride  of  his  bowsprit,  riding  the  sloop  ashore,  full  butt 
against  Antony's  Nose ;  and  that  he  was.exorcised  by  Dominie 
Van  Gieson,  of  Esopus,  who  happened  to  be  on  board,  and  who 
sung  the  hymn  of  St.  Nicholas ;  whereupon  the  goblin  threw 
himself  up  in  the  air  like  a  ball,  and  went  off  in  a  whirlwind, 
carrying  away  with  him  the  nightcap  of  the  Dominie's  wife ; 
which  Avas  discovered  the  next  Sunday  morning  hanging  on  the 
weather-cock  of  Esopus  church  steeple,  at  least  forty  miles  off! 
After  several  events  of  this  kind  had  taken  place,  the  regular 
skippers  of  the  river,  for  a  long  time,  did  not  venture  to  pass 
the  Dunderberg,  without  lowering  their  peaks,  out  of  homage 
to  the  Heer  of  the  mountain;  and  it  was  observed  that  all  such 
as  paid  this  tribute  of  respect  were  suffered  to  pass  unmolested.* 


"Such."  said  Antony  Vander  Heyden,  "are  a  few  of  the 
stories  written  down  by  Selyne  the  poet  concerning  this  storm- 
ship;  which  he  affirms  to  have  brought  this  colony  of  mis- 
chievous imps  into  the  province,  from  some  old  ghost-ridden 
country  of  Europe.  I  could  give  you  a  host  more,  if  necessary  • 
for  all  the  accidents  that  so  often  befall  the  river  craft  in  the 
highlands,  are  said  to  be  tricks  played  off  by  these  imps  of  the 
Dunderberg;  btit  I  see  that  you  are  nodding,  so  let  us  turn  in 
for  the  night." 

The  moon  had  just  raised  her  silver  horns  above  the  round 
back  of  old  Bull-Hill,  and  lit  up  the  gray  rocks  and  shagged 

*  Among  the  superstitions  which  prevailed  in  the  colonies  during  the  early  times 
of  the  settlements,  there  seems  to  have  been  a  singular  one  about  phantom  ships. 
The  superstitious  fancies  of  men  are  always  apt  to  turn  upon  those  objects  which 
concern  their  daily  occupations.  The  solitary  ship,  which,  from  year  to  year,  came 
like  a  raven  in  the  wilderness,  bringing  to  the  inhabitants  of  a  settlement  the  com- 
forts of  life  from  the  world  from  which  they  were  cut  off,  was  apt  to  be  present  to 
their  dreams,  whether  sleeping  or  waking.  The  accidental  sight  from  shore,  of  a 
sail  gliding  along  the  horizon,  in  those,  as  yet,  lonely  seas,  was  apt  to  be  a  matter 
of  much  talk  and  speculation.  There  is  mention  made  in  one  of  the  early  New- 
England  writers,  of  a  ship  navigated  by  witches,  with  a  great  horse  that  stood  by 
the  mainmast.  I  have  met  with  another  story,  somewhere,  of  a  ship  that  drove  on 
shore,  in  fair,  sunny,  tranquil  weather,  with  sails  all  set,  and  a  table  spread  in  the 
cabin,  as  if  to  regale  a  number  of  guests,  yet  not  a  living  being  on  board.  These 
phantom  ships  always  sailed  in  the  eye  of  the  wind ;  or  ploughed  their  way  with  great 
velocity,  making  the  smooth  sea  foam  before  their  bows,  when  not  a  breath  of  air 
was  stirring. 

Moore  has  finely  wrought  up  one  of  these  legends  of  the  sea  into  a  little  tale 
which,  within  a  small  compass,  contains  the  very  essence  of  this  species  of  super 
natural  fiction.    I  allude  to  his  Spectre-Ship  bound  to  Dead-man's  Isle. 


Tim  STOHM-SIIIP.  295 

I  s,  and  glittered  on  the  waving  bosom  of  the  river.a  The 
night-dew  was  falling,  and  the  late  gloomy  mountains  began  to 
soften,  and  put  on  a  gray  aerial  tint  in  the  dewy  light.  The 
hunters  stirred  the  fire,  and  threw  on  fresh  fuel  to  qualify  the 
damp  of  the  night  air.  They  then  prepared  a  bed  of  branches 
and  dry  leaves  under  a  ledge  of  rocks,  for  Dolph ;  while  An- 
tony Vander  Heyden,  wrapping  himself  up  in  a  huge  coat 
made  of  skins,  stretched  himself  before  the  fire.  It  was  some 
time,  however,  before  Dolph  could  close  his  eyes.  He  lay  con- 
templating the  strange  scene  before  him :  the  wild  woods  and 
rocks  around — the  fire,  throwing  fitful  gleams  on  the  faces  of 
the  sleeping  savages — and  the  Heer  Antony,  too,  who  so  singu- 
larly, yet  vaguely  reminded  him  of  the  nightly  visitant  to  the 
haunted  house.  Now  and  then  he  heard  the  cry  of  some 
animal  from  the  forest ;  or  the  hooting  of  the  owl ;  or  the  notes 
of  the  whip-poor-will,  which  seemed  to  abound  among  these 
solitudes ;  or  the  splash  of  a  sturgeon,  leaping  out  of  the  river, 
and  falling  back  full  length  on  its  placid  surface.  He  con- 
trasted all  this  with  his  accustomed  nest  in  the  garret-room  of 
the  doctor's  mansion ;  where  the  only  sounds  he  heard  at  night 
were  the  church-clock  telling  the  hour ;  the  drowsy  voice  of 
the  watchman,  drawling  out  all  was  well ;  the  deep  snoring  of 
the  doctor's  clubbed  nose  from  below  stairs ;  or  the  cautious 
labours  of  some  carpenter  rat  gnawing  in  the  wainscot.  His 
thoughts  then  wandered  to  his  poor  old  mother :  what  would 
she  think  of  his  mysterious  disappearance? — what  anxiety  and 
distress  would  she  not  suffer?  This  was  the  thought  that 
would  continually  intrude  itself,  to  mar  his  present  enjoyment. 
It  brought  with  it  a  feeling  of  pain  and  compunction,  and  he 
fell  asleep  with  the  tears  yet  standing  in  his  eyes. 

Were  this  a  mere  tale  of  fancy,  here  would  be  a  fine  oppor- 
tunity for  weaving  in  strange  adventures  among  these  wild 
mountains  and  roving  hunters;  and,  after^ involving  my  hero 
in  a  variety  of  perils  and  difficulties,  rescuing  him  from  them 
all  by  some  miraculous  contrivance :  but  as  this  is  absolutely  a 
true  story,  I  must  content  myself  with  simple  facts,  and  keep 
to  probabilities. 

At  an  early  hour  the  next  day,  therefore,  after  a  hearty 
morning's  meal,  the  encampment  broke  up,  and  our  adven- 
turers embarked  in  the  pinnace  of  Antony  Vander  Heyden. 
There  being  no  wind  for  the  sails,  the  Indians  rowed  her 
gently  along,  keeping  time  to  a  kind  of  chant  of  one  of  the 
white  men.    The  day  was  serene  and  beautiful ;  the  river  with- 


296  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

out  a  wave ;  and  as  the  vessel  cleft  the  glassy  water,  it  left  a 
long,  undulating  track  behind.  The  crows,  who  had  scented 
the  hunters'  banquet,  were  already  gathering  and  hovering  in 
the  air,  just  where  a  column  of  thin,  blue  smoke,  rising  from 
among  the  trees,  showed  the  place  of  their  last  night's  quarters. 
As  they  coasted  along  the  bases  of  the  mountains,  the  Heer 
Antony  pointed  out  to  Dolph  a  bald  eagle,  the  sovereign  ot 
these  regions,  who  sat  perched  on  a  dry  tree  that  projected 
over  the  river;  and,  wiih  eye  turned  upwards,  seemed  to  be 
drinking  in  the  splendour  of  the  morning  sun.  Their  approach 
disturbed  the  monarch's  meditations.  He  first  spread  one 
wing,  and  then  the  other;  balanced  himself  for  a  moment;  and 
then,  quitting  his  perch  with  dignified  composure,  wheeled 
slowly  over  their  hecvds.  Dolph  snatched  up  a  gun,  and  sent 
a  whistling  ball  after  him,  that  cut  some  of  the  feathers  from 
his  wing;  the  report  of  the  gun  leaped  sharply  from  rock  to 
rock,  and  awakened  a .  thousand  echoes ;  but  the  monarch  of 
the  air  sailed  calmly  on,  ascending  higher  and  higher,  and 
wheeling  widely  as  he  ascended,  soaring  up  the  green  bosom  of 
the  woody  mountain,  until  he  disappeared  over  the  brow  of  a 
beetling  precipice.  Dolph  felt  in  a  manner  rebuked  by  this 
proud  tranquillity,  and  almost  reproached  himself  for  having 
so  wantonly  insulted  this  majestic  bird.  Heer  Antony  told 
him,  laughing,  to  remember  that  he  was  not  yet  out  of  the 
territories  of  the  lord  of  the  Dunderberg ;  and  an  old  Indian 
shook  his  head,  and  observed  that  there  was  bad  luck  in  killing 
an  eagle— the  hunter,  on  'the  contrary,  should  always  leave 
him  a  portion  of  his  spoils. 

Nothing,  however,  occurred  to  molest  them  on  their  voyage. 
They  passed  pleasantly  through  magnificent  and  lonely  scenes, 
until  they  came  to  where  Pollopol's  Island  lay,  like  a  floating 
oower,  at  the  extremity  of  the  highlands.  Here  they  landed, 
until  the  heat  of  th&  day  should  abate,  or  a  breeze  spring  up, 
hat  might  supersede  the  labour  of  the  oar.  Some  prepared 
;he  mid-day  meal,  while  others  reposed  under  the  shade  of  the 
trees  in  luxurious  summer  indolence,  looking  drowsily  forth 
upon  the  beauty  of  the  scene.  On  the  one  side  were  the  high- 
lands, vast  and  cragged,  feathered  to  the  top  with  forests,  and 
throwing  their  shadows  on  the  glassy  water  that  dimpled  at 
their  feet.  On  the  other  side  was  a  wide  expanse  of  the  river, 
like  a  broad  lake,  with  long  sunny  reaches,  and  green  head- 
lands; and  the  distant  line  of  Shawungunk  mountains  wai  ' 
along  a  clear  horizon,  or  checkered  by  a  fleecy  cloud. 


THE  STORM-SHIP.  297 

But  I  forbear  to  dwell  on  the  particulars  of  their  cruise  along 
the  river;  this  vagrant,  amphibious  life,  careering  across  silver 
sheets  of  water;  coasting  wild  woodland  shores;  banqueting 
on  shady  promontories,  with  the  spreading  tree  overhead,  the 
river  curling  its  light  foam  to  one's  feet,  and  distant  mountain, 
and  rock,  and  tree,  and  snowy  cloud,  and  deep-blue  sky,  all 
mingling  in  summer  beauty  before  one;  all  this,  though  never 
cloying  in  the  enjoyment,  would  be  but  tedious  in  narration. 

When  encamped  by  the  water-side,  some  of  tho  party  would 
go  into  the  woods  and  hunt ;  others  would  fish :  sometimes  they 
would  amuse  themselves  by  shooting  at  a  mark,  by  leaping,  by 
running,  by  wrestling :  and  Dolph  gained  great  favour  in  the 
eyes  of  Antony  Vander  Heyden.  by  his  skill  and  adroitness  in 
all  these  exercises ;  which  the  Heer  considered  as  the  highest 
of  manly  accomplishments. 

Thus  did  they  coast  jollily  on,  choosing  only  the  pleasant 
hours  for  voyaging;  sometimes  in  the  cool  morning  dawn, 
sometimes  in  the  sober  evening  twilight,  and  sometimes  when 
the  moonshine  spangled  the  crisp  curling  waves  that  whispered 
along  the  sides  of  their  little  bark.  Never  had  Dolph  felt  so 
completely  in  his  element ;  never  had  he  met  witli  any  thing 
so  completely  to  his  taste  as  this  wild,  hap-hazard  life.  He 
was  the  very  man  to  second  Antony  Vander  Heyden  in  his 
rambling  humours,  and  gained  continually  on  his  affections. 
The  heart  of  the  old  bushwhacker  yearned  toward  the  young 
man.  who  seemed  thus  growing  up  in  his  own  likeness ;  and  as 
they  approached  to  the  end  of  their  voyage,  he  could  not  help 
inquiring  a  little  into  his  history.     Dolph  frankly  told  him  his 

•<>urse  of  life,  his  severe  medical  studies,  his  little  proficiency. 

Bid  his  very  dubious  ] prospects.  The  Heer  was  shocked  to  find 
that  such  amazing  talents  and  accomplishments  were  to  be 

•ramped  and  buried  under  a  doctor's  wig.     He  had  a  sovereign 

sontempt  for  the  healing  art,  having  never  had  any  other  phy- 
•ian  than  the  butcher.     He  bore  a  mortal  grudge  to  all  kinds 

>f  study  also,  ever  since  he  had  been  flogged  about  an  unintel- 

igible  book  when  he  was  a  boy.  But  to  think  that  a  young  fel- 
low like  Dolph,  of  such  wonderful  abilities,  who  could  shoot, 
fish,  run,  jump,  ride,  and  wrestle,  should  be  obliged  to  roll 

)ills  and  administer  juleps  for  a  living — 'twas  monstrous !  He 
)ld  Dolph  never  to  despair,  but  to  '•  throw  physic  to  the  dogs;'1 
for  a  young  fellow  of  his  prodigious  talents  could  never  fail  to 
ike  his  way.  "  As  you  seem  to  have  no  acquaintance  in  Al- 
bany." said  Heer  Antoiry,  "you  shall  go  home  with  me,  and 


298  BRACEBRWGE  HALL. 

remain  under  my  roof  until  you  can  look  about  you ;  and  in 
the  meantime  we  can  take  an  occasional  bout  at  shooting  and 
fishing,  for  it  is  a  pity  such  talents  should  lie  idle." 

Dolph,  who  was  at  the  mercy  of  chance,  was  not  hard  to 
be  persuaded.  Indeed,  on  turning  over  matters  in  his  mind, 
which  he  did  very  sagely  and  deliberately,  he  could  not  but 
think  that  Antony  Vander  Hey  den  was,  "  some  how  or  other," 
connected  with  the  stor y  of  the  Haunted  House ;  that  the  misad 
venture  in  the  highlands,  which  had  thrown  them  so  strangely 
together,  was,  ''some  how  or  other,"  to  work  out  something 
good:  in  short,  there  is  nothing  so  convenient  as  this  "some 
how  or  other"  way  of  accommodating  one's  self  to  circum- 
stances;  it  is  the  main-stay  of  a  heedless  actor,  and  tardy 
reasoner,  like  Dolph  Heyliger ;  and  he  who  can,  in  this  loose, 
easy  way,  link  foregone  evil  to  anticipated  good,  possesses  a 
secret  of  happiness  almost  equal  to  the  philosopher's  stone. 

On  their  arrival  at  Albany,  the  sight  of  Dolph's  companion 
seemed  to  cause  universal  satisfaction.  Many  were  the  greet- 
ings at  the  river  side,  and  the  salutations  in  the  streets:  the 
dogs  bounded  before  him;  the  boys  whooped  as  he  passed; 
every  body  sivmcd  to  know  Antony  Vander  Heyden.  Dolph 
followed  on  in  silence,  admiring  the  neatness  of  this  worthy 
burgh ;  for  in  those  days  Albany  was  in  all  its  glory,  and  in- 
habited almost  exclusively  by  the  descendants  of  the  original 
Dutch  settlers,  for  it  had  not  as  yet  been  discovered  and  colo- 
nized by  the  restless  people  of  New-England.  Every  thing 
was  quiet  and  orderly ;  every  thing  was  conducted  calmly  and 
leisurely;  no  hurry,  no  bustle,  no  struggling  and  scrambling 
for  existence.  The  grass  grew  about  the  unpaved  streets,  and 
relieved  the  eye  by  its  refreshing  verdure.  The  tall  sycamorea 
or  pendent  willows  shaded  the  houses,  with  caterpillars  swing- 
ing, in  long  silken  strings,  from  their  branches,  or  moths,  nut- 
tering  about  like  coxcombs,  in  joy  at  their  gay  transforma- 
tion. The  houses  were  built  in  the  old  Dutch  style,  with  the 
gable-ends  towards  the  street.  The  thrifty  housewife  was 
seated  on  a  bench  before  her  door,  in  close  crimped  cap,  bright 
flowered  gown,  and  white  apron,  busily  employed  in  knitting. 
The  husband  smoked  his  pipe  on  the  opposite  bench,  and  the 
little  pet  negro  girl,  seated  on  the  step  at  her  mistress'  feet, 
was  industriously  plying  her  needle.  The  swallows  sported 
about  the  eaves,  or  skimmed  along  the  streets,  and  brought 
back  some  rich  booty  for  their  clamorous  young ;  and  the  little 
housekeeping  wren  flew  in  and  out  0/  a  Lilliputian  house,  or 


Tin:  sroltM-sfflP.  299 

an  old  hat  nailed  against  the  wall.  The  cows  were  coming 
home,  lowing  through  the  streets,  to  be  milked  at  their  owner's 
door ;  and  if,  perchance,  there  were  any  loiterers,  some  negro 
urchin,  with  a  long  goad,  was  gently  urging  them  homewards. 

As  Dolph 's  companion  passed  on,  he  received  a  tranquil  nod 
from  the  burghers,  and  a  friendly  word  from  their  wives ;  all 
calling  him  familiarly  by  the  name  of  Antony ;  for  it  was  the 
custom  in  this  strong-hold  of  the  patriarchs,  where  they  had 
all  grown  up  together  from  childhood  to  call  every  one  by  the 
Christian  name.  The  Heer  did  not  pause  to  have  his  usual 
jokes  with  them,  for  he  was  impatient  to  reach  his  home.  At 
length  they  arrived  at  his  mansion.  It  was  of  some  magni- 
tude, in  the  Dutch  style,  with  Urge  iron  figures  on  the  gables, 
that  gave  the  date  of  its  erection,  and  showed  that  it  had  been 
built  hi  the  earliest  times  of  the  settlement. 

The  news  of  Heer  Antony's  arrival  had  preceded  him ;  and 
the  whole  household  was  on  the  look-out.  A  crew  of  negroes, 
large  and  small,  had  collected  in  front  of  the  house  to  receive 
him.  The  old,  white-headed  ones,  who  had  grown  gray  in  his 
service,  grinned  for  joy  and  made  many  awkward  bows  and 
grimaces,  and  the  little  ones  capered  about  his  knees.  But  the 
most  happy  being  in  the  household  was  a  little,  plump,  bloom- 
ing lass,  his  only  child,  and  the  darling  of  his  heart.  She  came 
bounding  out  of  the  house ;  but  the  sight  of  a  strange  young 
man  with  her  father  called  up,  for  a  moment,  all  the  bashful- 
ness  of  a  homebred  damsel.  Dolph  gazed  at  her  with  wonder 
and  delight ;  never  had  he  seen,  as  he  thought,  any  thing  so 
comely  in  the  shape  of  woman.  She  was  dressed  in  the  good 
old  Dutch  taste,  with  long  stays,  and  full,  short  petticoats,  so 
admirably  adapted  to  show  and  set  off.  the  female  form.  Her 
hair,  turned  up  under  a  small  round  cap,  displayed  the  fairness 
of  her  forehead ;  she  had  fine,  blue,  laughing  eyes,  a  trim,  slen- 
der waist,  and  soft  swell — but,  in  a  word,  she  was  a  little 
Dutch  divinity ;  and  Dolph,  who  never  stopt  half-way  in  a  new 
impulse,  fell  desperately  in  love  with  her. 

Dolph  was  now  ushered  into  the  house  with  a  hearty  wel- 
come. In  the  interior  was  a  mingled  display  of  Heer  Antony's 
taste  and  habits,  and  of  the  opulence  of  his  predecessors.  The 
chambers  were  furnished  with  good  old  mahogany ;  the  beau- 
fets  and  cupboards  glittered  with  embossed  silver,  and  painted 
china.  Over  the  parlour  fire-place  was,  as  usual,  the  family 
ooat-of-arms,  painted  and  framed;  above  which  was  a  long 
duck  fowling-piece,  flanked  by  an  Indian  pouch,  and  a  powder- 


300  BRACEBRIDOB  HALL. 

horn.  The  room  was  decorated  with  many  Indian  articles, 
such  as  pipes  of  peace,  tomahawks,  scalping-knives,  hunting- 
pouches,  and  belts  of  wampum ;  and  there  were  various  kinds 
of  fishing  tackle,  and  two  or  three  fowling-pieces  in  the  corners. 
The  household  affairs  seemed  to  be  conducted,  in  some  meas- 
ure, after  the  master's  humours ;  corrected,  perhaps,  by  a  little 
quiet  management  of  the  daughter's.  There  was  a  degree  of 
patriarchal  simplicity,  and  good-humoured  indulgence.  The 
negroes  came  into  the  room  without  being  called,  merely  to 
look  at  their  master,  and  hear  of  his  adventures ;  they  would 
stand  listening  at  the  door  until  he  had  finished  a  story,  and 
t  hen  go  off  on  a  broad  grin,  to  repeat  it  in  the  kitchen.  A  couple 
of  pet  negro  children  were  playing  about  the  floor  with  the 
dogs,  and  sharing  with  them  their  bread  and  butter.  All  the 
domestics  looked  heart}'  and  happy ;  and  when  the  table  was 
set  for  the  evening  repast,  the  variety  and  abundance  of  good 
household  luxuries  bore  testimony  to  the  openhanded  liberal- 
it  v  of  the  Heer,  and  the  notable  housewifery  of  his  daughter. 

In  the  evening  there  dropped  in  several  of  the  worthies  of 
the  place,  the  Van  Rennsellaers,  and  the  Gansevoorts,  and  the 
Bosebooms,  and  others  of  Antony  Vander  Heyden's  intimates, 
to  hear  an  account  of  his  expedition ;  for  he  was  the  Sindbad  of 
Albany,  and  his  exploits  and  adventures  were  favourite  topics 
of  conversation  among  the  inhabitants.  While  these  sat  gossip- 
ing together  about  the  door  of  the  hall,  and  telling  long  twilight 
stories,  Dolph  was  cozily  seated,  entertaining  the  daughter  on 
a  window -bench.  He  had  already  got  on  intimate  terms ;  for 
those  were  not  times  of  false  reserve  and  idle  ceremony ;  and, 
besides,  there  is  something  wonderfully  propitious  to  a  lover's 
suit,  in  the  delightful  dusk  of  a  long  summer  evening ;  it  gives 
courage  to  the  most  timid  tongue,  and  hides  the  blushes  of 
the  bashful.  The  stars  alone  twinkled  brightly ;  and  now  and 
then  a  fire-fly  streamed  his  transient  light  before  the  win- 
dow, or,  wandering  into  the  room,  flew  gleaming  about  the 
ceiling. 

What  Dolph  whispered  in  her  ear,  that  long  summer  even- 
ing,  it  is  impossible  to  say :  his  words  were  so  low  and  indistinct, 
that  they  never  reached  the  ear  of  the  historian.  It  is  proba- 
ble, however,  that  they  were  to  the  purpose;  for  he  had  a 
natural  talent  at  pleasing  the  sex,  and  was  never  long  in  com- 
pany with  a  petticoat  without  paying  proper  court  to  it.  In 
the  meantime,  the  visitors,  one  by  one,  departed ;  Antony  Van- 
der Hevden,  who  had  fairly  talked  himself  silent,  sat  nodding 


THE  sroini ship.  301 

alone  in  his  chair  by  the  door,  when  he  was  suddenly  aroused 
by  a  hearty  salute  with  which  Dolph  Heyliger  had  unguardedly 
rounded  off  one  of  his  periods,  and  which  echoed  through  the 
still  chamber  like  the  report  of  a  pistol.  The  Heer  started  up, 
rubbed  his  eyes,  called  for  lights,  and  observed,  that  it  was 
high  time  to  go  to  bed;  though,  on  parting  for  the  night,  he 
squeezed  Dolph  heartily  by  the  hand,  looked  kindly  in  his  face.. 
and  shook  his  head  knowingly;  for  the  Heer  well  remembered 
what  lie  himself  had  been  at  the  youngster's  age. 

The  chamber  in  winch  our  hero  was  lodged  was  spacious,  and 
panelled  with  oak.  It  was  furnished  with  clothes-presses,  and 
mighty  chests  of  drawers,  well  waxed,  and  glittering  with 
brass  ornaments.  These  contained  ample  stock  of  family  linen ; 
for  the  Dutch  housewives  had  always  a  laudable  pride  in  show- 
ing off  their  household  treasures  to  strangers. 

Dolph's  mind,  however,  was  too  full  to  take  particular  note 
of  the  objects  around  him ;  yet  he  could  not  help  continually 
comparing  the  free,  open-hearted  cheeriness  of  tins  establish- 
ment with  the  starveling,  sordid,  joyless  housekeeping  at  Doc- 
tor Knipperhausen's.  Still  there  was  something  that  marred 
the  enjoyment— the  idea  that  he  must  take  leave  of  his  hearty 
host  and  pretty  hostess  and  cast  himself  once  more  adrift  upon 
the  world.  To  linger  here  would  be  folly ;  he  should  only  get 
deeper  in  love ;  and  for  a  poor  varlet  like  himself  to  aspire  to 
the  daughter  of  the  great  Heer  Vander  Heyden— it  was  mad- 
ness to  think  of  such  a  thing !  The  very  kindness  that  the  girl 
had  shown  towards  him.  prompted  him,  on  reflection,  to  hasten 
his  departure ;  it  would  be  a  poor  return  for  the  frank  hos- 
pitality of  his  host  to  entangle  his  daughter's  heart  in  an  in- 
judicious attachment.  In  a  word,  Dolph  was  like  many  other 
young  reasoners,  of  exceeding  good  hearts  and  giddy  heads, 
who  think  after  they  act,  and  act  differently  from  what  they 
think ;  who  make  excellent  determinations  overnight  and  for- 
get to  keep  them  the  next  morning. 

"This  is  a  fine  conclusion,  truly,  of  my  voyage,"  said  he,  as 
he  almost  buried  himself  in  a  sumptuous  feather-bed,  and  dreAv 
the  fresh  white  sheets  up  to  his  chin.  "Here  am  I,  instead  of 
finding  a  bag  of  money  to  carry  home,  launched  in  a  strange 
place,  with  scarcely  a  stiver  in  my  pocket ;  and,  what  is  worse, 
have  jumped  ashore  up  to  my  very  ears  in  love  into  the  bar- 
gain. However,"  added  he,  after  some  pause,  stretching  him- 
self and  turning  himself  in  bed,  ' '  I'm  in  good  quarters  for  the 
present,  at  least;  so  I'll  e'en  enjoy  the  present  moment,  an<)  let 


302  BRACEBBIDGE  HALL. 

the  next  take  care  of  itself ;  i  dare  say  all  will  work  out,  '  some 
how  or  other,'  for  the  best." 

As  he  said  these  words,  he  reached  out  his  hand  to  extinguish 
the  candle,  when  he  was  suddenly  struck  with  astonishment 
and  dismay,  for  he  thought  he  beheld  the  phantom  of  the 
haunted  house  staring  on  him  from  a  dusky  part  of  the  cham- 
ber. A  second  look  reassured  him,  as  he  perceived  that  what 
he  had  taken  for  the  spectre  was,  in  fact,  nothing  but  a  Flem- 
ish portrait,  that  hung  in  a  shadowy  corner  just  behind  a 
clothes-press.  It  was,  however,  the  precise  representation  of 
his  nightly  visitor :— the  same  cloak  and  belted  jerkin,  the  same 
grizzled  beard  and  fixed  eye,  the  same  broad  slouched  hat,  with 
a  feather  hanging  over  one  side.  Dolph  now  called  to  mind 
the  resemblance  he  had  frequently  remarked  between  his  host 
and  the  old  man  of  the  haunted  house :  and  was  fully  convinced 
that  they  were  in  some  way  connected,  and  that  some  especial 
destiny  had  governed  his  voyage.  He  lay  gazing  on  the  por- 
trait with  almost  as  much  awe  as  he  had  gazed  on  the  ghostly 
original,  until  the  shrill  house-clock  warned  him  of  the  lateness 
of  the  hour.  He  put  out  the  light ;  but  remained  for  a  long 
time  turning  over  these  curious  circumstances  and  coincidences 
in  his  mind,  until  he  fell  asleep.  His  dreams  partook  of  the 
nature  of  Ins  waking  thoughts.  He  fancied  that  he  still  lay 
gazing  on  the  picture,  until,  by  degrees,  it  became  animated; 
that  the  figure  descended  from  the  wall  and  walked  out  of  the 
room;  that  he  followed  it,  and  found  himself  by  the  well,  to 
which  the  old  man  pointed,  smiled  on  him,  and  disappeared. 

In  the  morning  when  Dolph  waked,  he  found  his  host  stand- 
ing by  his  bed-side,  who  gave  him  a  hearty  morning's  saluta- 
tion, and  asked  him  how  he  had  slept.  Dolph  answered 
cheerily ;  but  took  occasion  to  inquire  about  the  portrait  that 
hung  against  the  wall.  "Ah,"  said  Heer  Antony,  "that's  a 
portrait  of  old  Killian  Vander  Spiegel,  once  a  burgomaster  of 
Amsterdam,  who,  on  some  popular  troubles,  abandoned  Hol- 
land and  came  over  to  the  province  during  the  government  of 
Peter  Stuyvesant.  He  was  my  ancestor  by  the  mother's  side, 
and  an  old  miserly  curmudgeon  he  was.  When  the  English 
took  possession  of  New- Amsterdam  in  1664,  he  retired  into  the 
country.  He  fell  into  a  melancholy,  apprehending  that  his 
wealth  would  be  taken  from  him  and  that  he  would  come  to 
beggary.  He  turned  all  his  property  into  cash,  and  used  to 
hide  it  away.  He  was  for  a  year  or  two  concealed  in  various 
places,  fancying  himself  sought  after  by  the  English,  to  strip 


THE  STORM-SUIP.  303 

him  of  his  wealth ;  and  finally  was  Jound  dead  in  his  bed  one 
morning,  without  any  one  being  able  to  discover  where  he  had 
concealed  the  greater  part  of  his  money." 

When  4ris  host  had  left  the  room,  Dolph  remained  for  some 
time  lost  in  thought.  His  whole  mind  was  occupied  by  what 
he  had  heard.  Vander  Spiegel  was  his  mother's  family  name ; 
and  he  recollected  to  have  heard  her  speak  of  this  very  Killian 
Vander  Spiegel  as  one  of  her  ancestors.  He  had  heard  her 
too.  that  her  father  was  Killian's  rightful  heir,  only  that  the 
old  man  died  without  leaving  any  thing  to  be  inherited.  It  now 
appeared  that  Heer  Antony  was  likewise  a  descendant,  and 
perhaps  an  heir  also,  of  this  poor  rich  man ;  and  that  thus  the 
Heyligers  and  the  Vander  Heydens  were  remotely  connected. 
'•What,''  thought  he,  ;;if.  after  all,  this  is  the  interpretation  of 
my  dream,  that  this  is  the  way  I  am  to  make  my  fortune  by 
this  voyage  to  Albany,  and  that  I  am  to  find  the  old  man's 
hidden  wealth  in  the  bottom  of  that  well  ?  But  what  an  odd, 
round-about  mode  of  communicating  the  matter!  Why  the 
plague  could  not  the  old  goblin  have  told  me  about  the  well  at 
once,  without  sending  me  ail  the  wajr  to  Albany  to  hear  a  story 
that  was  to  send  me  all  the  way  back  again?" 

These  thoughts  passed  through  his  mind  while  he  was  dressing. 
He  descended  the  stairs,  full  of  perplexity,  when  the  bright 
face  of  Marie  Vander  Heyden  suddenly  beamed  in  smiles  upon 
him,  and  seemed  to  give  him  a  clue  to  the  whole  mystery. 
u After  all."  thought  he,  "the  old  goblin  is  in  the  right.  If  I 
am  to  get  his  wealth,  he  means  that  I  shall  marry  his  pretty  de- 
scendant; thus  both  branches  of  the  family  will  be  again 
united,  and  the  property  go  on  in  the  proper  channel." 

No  sooner  did  this  idea  enter  his  head,  than  it  carried  con- 
viction with  it.  He  was  now  all  impatience  to  hurry  back  and 
secure  the  treasure,  which,  he  did  not  doubt,  lay  at  the  bottom 
of  the  well,  and  which  he  feared  every  moment  might  be  litf- 
covered  by  some  other  person.  "Who  knows,"  thought  he, 
''but  this  night- walking  old  fellow  of  the  haunted  house  may 
be  in  the  habit  of  haunting  every  visitor,  and  may  give  a  hint 
to  some  shrewder  fellow  than  myself,  who  will  take  a  shorter 
cut  to  the  well  than  by  the  way  of  Albany?"  He  wished  a 
thousand  times  that  the  babbling  old  ghost  was  laid  in  the  Red 
Sea,  and  his  rambling  portrait  with  him.  He  was  in  a  perfect 
fever  to  depart.  Two  or  three  days  elapsed  before  any  oppor- 
tunity presented  for  returning  down  the  river.  They  we>e  ages 
to  Dolph.  notwithstanding  that  he  was  basking  in  the  smiles  oj 


304  BR.  1 CEBRIDG  E  11. 1  L  L. 

the  pretty  Marie,  and  daily  getting  more  and  more  enamoured. 

At  length  the  very  sloop  from  which  he  had  been  knocked 
overboard,  prepared  to  make  sail.  Dolph  made  an  awkward 
apology  to  his  host  for  his  sudden  departure.  Antony  Vander 
Heyden  was  sorely  astonished.  He  had  concerted  half-a-dozen 
excursions  into  the  wilderness ;  and  his  Indians  were  actually 
preparing  for  a  grand  expedition  to  one  of  the  lakes.  He  took 
Dolph  aside,  and  exerted  his  eloquence  to  get  him  to  abandon 
all  thoughts  of  business,  and  to  remain  with  him — but  in  vain; 
and  ho  at  length  gave  up  the  attempt,  observing,  "that  it  was 
a  thousand  pities  so  fine  a  young  man  should  throw  himself 
away."  Heer  Antony,  however,  gave  him  a  hearty  shake  by 
the  hand  at  parting,  with  a  favourite  fowling-piece,  and  an 
invitation  t<>  come  to  his  house  whenever  he  revisited  Albany. 
Tho  pretty  little  Marie  Bald  nothing;  but  as  he  gave  her  a  fare- 
well kiss,  her  dimpled  cheek  turned  pale,  and  a  tear  stood  in 
her  eye. 

Dolph  sprang  lightly  on  board  of  the  vessel.  They  hoisted 
sail;  the  wind  was  fair;  they  soon  lost  sight  of  Albany,  and 
its  green  hills,  and  embowered  islands.  They  were  Avafted 
gaylv  past  the  Kaatskill  mountains,  whose  fairy  heights  were 
bright  and  cloudless.  They  passed  prosperously  through  the 
highlands,  without  any  molestation  from  the  Dunderberg 
goblin  and  his  crew;  they  swept  on  across  Haverstraw  Bay, 
and  by  Croton  Point,  and  through  the  Tappaan  Zee,  and 
under  the  Palisadoes,  until,  in  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day, 
they  saw  the  promontory  of  Hoboken,  hanging  like  a  cloud  in 
the  air ;  and,  shortly  after,  the  roofs  of  the  Manhattoes  rising 
out  of  the  water. 

Dolph's  first  care  was  to  repair  to  his  mother's  house ;  for  he 
was  continually  goaded  by  the  idea  of  the  uneasiness  she  must 
experience  on  his  account.  He  was  puzzling  his  brains,  as  he 
went  along,  to  think  how  he  should  account  for  his  absence, 
without  betraying  the  secrets  of  the  haunted  house.  In  the 
midst  of  these  cogitations,  he  entered  the  street  in  which  his 
mother's  house  was  situated,  when  he  was  thunderstruck  at 
beholding  it  a  heap  of  ruins. 

There  had  evidently  been  a  great  fire,  which  had  destroyed 
several  large  houses,  and  the  humble  dwelling  of  poor  Dame 
Heyliger  had  been  involved  in  the  conflagration.  The  walls 
were  not  so  completely  destroyed  but  that  Dolph  could  distin- 
guish some  traces  of  the  scene  of  his  childhood.  The  fire-place, 
about  which  he  had  often  played,  still  remained,  ornamented 


THE  STORM-SHIP.  305 

with  Dutch  tiles,  illustra  ing  passages  in  Bible  history,  on 
which  he  had  many  a  time  gazed  with  admiration.  Among 
the  rubbish  lay  the  wreck  of  the  good  dame's  elbow-chair,  from 
which  she  had  given  him  so  many  a  wholesome  precept ;  and 
hard  by  it  was  the  family  Bible,  with  brass  clasps ;  now,  alas ! 
reduced  almost  to  a  cinder. 

For  a  moment  Dolph  was  overcome  by  this  dismal  sight,  mi- 
ne was  seized  with  the  fear  that  his  mother  had  perished  in  the 
flames.  He  was  relieved,  however,  from  this  horrible  appre- 
hension, by  one  of  the  neighbours  who  happened  to  come  by, 
and  who  informed  him  that  his  mother  was  yet  alive. 

The  good  woman  had,  indeed,  lost  every  thing  by, this  un- 
looked-for calamity ;  for  the  populace  had  been  so  intent  upon 
saving  the  fine  furniture  of  her  rich  neighbours,  that  the  little 
tenement,  and  the  little  all  of  poor  Dame  Heyliger,  had  been 
suffered  to  consume  without  interruption ;  nay,  had  it  not  been 
for  the  gallant  assistance  of  her  old  crony,  Peter  de  Groodt,  the 
worthy  dame  and  her  cat  might  have  shared  the  fate  of  their 
habitation. 

As  it  was,  she  had  been  overcome  with  fright  and  affliction, 
and  lay  ill  in  body,  and  sick  at  heart.  The  public,  however, 
had  showed  her  its  wonted  kindness.  The  furniture  of  her  rich 
neighbours  being,  as  far  as  possible,  rescued  from  the  flames ; 
themselves  duly  and  ceremoniously  visited  and  condoled  with 
on  the  injury  of  their  property,  and  their  ladies  commiserated 
on  the  agitation  of  their  nerves;  the  public,  at  length,  began  to 
recollect  something  about  poor  Dame  Heyliger.  She  forthwith 
became  again  a  subject  of  universal  sympathy;  every  body 
pitied  more  than  ever ;  and  if  pity  could  but  have  been  coined 
into  cash — good  Lord !  how  rich  she  would  have  been ! 

It  was  now  determined,  in  good  earnest,  that  something 
ought  to  be  done  for  her  without  delay.  The  Dominie,  there- 
fore, put  up  prayers  for  her  on  Sunday,  in  which  all  the  con- 
gregation joined  most  heartily.  Even  Cobus  Groeslnvk,  the 
alderman,  and  Mynheer  Milledollar,  the  great  Dutch  merchant, 
stood  up  in  their  pews,  and  did  not  spare  their  voices  on  the 
occasion;  and  it  was  thought  the  prayers  of  such  great  men 
could  not  but  have  their  due  weight.  Doctor  Knipperhausen, 
too,  visited  her  professionally,  and  gave  her  abundance  of  ad- 
vice gratis,  and  was  universally  lauded  for  his  charity.  As  to 
her  old  friend,  Peter  de  Groodt,  he  was  a  poor  man,  whos<» 
pity,  and  prayers,  and  advice  could  be  of  but  little  avail,  so  he 
gave  her  all  that  was  in  his  power— he  gave  her  shelter. 


306  iniAaamtVGK  uall. 

To  the  humble  dwelling  of  Peter  de  Groodt,  then,  did  Dolph 
turn  his  steps.  On  his  way  thither,  he  recalled  all  the  tender- 
ness and  kindness  of  his  simple-hearted  parent,  her  indulgence 
of  his  errors,  her  blindness  to  Ins  faults;  and  then  he  be- 
thought himself  of  his  own  idle,  harum-scarum  life.  ' '  I've 
been  a  sad  scape-grace,"  said  Dolph,  shaking  his  head  sorrow- 
fully. "I've  been  a  complete  sink-pocket,  that's  the  truth  of 
it!— But,"  added  he,  briskly,  and  clasping  his  hands,  "  only  let 
her  live— only  let  her  live— and  I'll  show  myself  indeed  a  son !" 

As  Dolph  approached  the  house,  he  met  Peter  de  Groodt 
coining  out  of  it.  The  old  man  started  back  aghast,  doubting 
whether  it  was  not  a  ghost  that  stood  before  him.  It  bein| 
bright  daylight,  however,  Peter  soon  plucked  up  heart,  satis- 
fied that  no  ghost  dare  show  his  face  in  such  clear  sunshine. 
Dolph  now  learned  from  the  worthy  sexton  the  consternatioi 
and  rumour  to  which  his  mysterious  disappearance  had  givei 
rise.  It  had  been  universally  believed  that  he  had  beei 
spirited  away  by  those  hobgoblin  gentry  that  infested  the 
haunted  house;  and  old  Abraham  Vandozer,  who  lived  by  the 
great  button-wood  trees,  at  the  three-mile  stone,  affirmed,  that 
he  had  heard  a  terrible  noise  in  the  air,  as  he  was  going  hoi 
late  at  night,  which  seemed  just  as  if  a  flight  of  wild  geese  wei 
overhead,  passing  off  towards  the  northward.  The  haunte 
house  was.  in  consequence,  looked  upon  with  ten  times  moi 
awe  than  ever ;  nobody  would  venture  to  pass  a  night  in  it  f 01 
the  world,  and  even  the  doctor  had  ceased  to  make  his  expedi 
tions  to  it  in  the  day-time! 

It  required  some  preparation  before  Dolph's  return  could 
made  known  to  his  mother,  the  poor  soul  having  bewailed  nil 
as  lost ;  and  her  spirits  having  been  sorely  broken  down  by 
number  of  comforters,  who  daily  cheered  her  with  stories  of 
ghosts,  and  of  people  carried  away  by  the  devil.  He  foune 
her  confined  to  her  bed,  with  the  other  member  of  the  He^ 
liger  family,  the  good  dame's  cat,  purring  beside  her,  but  sadh 
singed,  and  utterly  despoiled  of  those  whiskers  which  were  tl 
glory  of  her  physiognomy.  The  poor  woman  threw  her  an 
about  Dolph's  neck:  "My  boy!  my  boy!  art  thou  still  alive?' 
For  a  time  she  seemed  to  have  forgotten  all  her  losses  ane 
troubles,  in  her  joy  at  his  return.  Even  the  sage  grimalki 
showed  indubitable  signs  of  joy,  at  the  return  of  the  youngster. 
She  saw,  perhaps,  that  they  were  a  forlorn  and  undone  family, 
and  felt  a  touch  of  that  kindliness  which  fellow-sufferers  only 
know.     But,  in  truth,  cats  are  a  slandered  people ;  they  have 


THE  STORM-SHIP.  30? 

more  affection  in  them  than  the  world  commonly  gives  them 
credit  for. 

The  good  dame's  eyes  glistened  as  she  saw  one  being,  at 
least,  beside  herself,  rejoiced  at  her  son's  return.  ' '  Tib  knows 
thee !  poor  dumb  beast !"  said  she,  smoothing  down  the  mot- 
tled coat  of  her  favourite;  then  recollecting  herself,  with  a 
melancholy  shake  of  the  head,  "Ah,  my  poor  Dolph!"  ex- 
claimed she,  "thy  mother  can  help  thee  no  longer!  She  can 
no  longer  help  herself !  What  will  become  of  thee,  my  poor 
boy!" 

"  Mother, "  said  Dolph,  "  don't  talk  in  that  strain ;  I've  been 
too  long  a  charge  upon  you ;  it's  now  my  part  to  take  care  ot 
you  in  your  old  days.  Come !  be  of  good  heart !  you,  and  I. 
and  Tib,  will  all  see  better  days.  I'm  here,  you  see,  young, 
and  sound,  and  hearty ;  then  don't  let  us  despair ;  I  dare  say 
things  will  all,  some  how  or  other,  turn  out  for  the  best." 

While  this  scene  was  going  on  with  the  Heyliger  family,  the 
news  was  carried  to  Doctor  Knipperhausen,  of  the  safe  return 
of  his  disciple.  The  little  doctor  scarcely  knew  whether  to  re- 
joice or  be  sorry  at  the  tidings.  He  was  happy  at  having  the 
foul  reports  which  had  prevailed  concerning  his  country  man- 
sion thus  disproved ;  but  he  grieved  at  having  his  disciple,  ot 
whom  he  had  supposed  himself  fairly  disencumbered,  thus 
drifting  back,  a  heavy  charge  upon  his  hands.  While  he  was 
balancing  between  these  two  feelings,  he  was  determined  by 
the  counsels  of  Frau  Ilsy,  who  advised  him  to  take  advantage 
of  the  truant  absence  of  the  youngster,  and  shut  the  door  upon 
him  for  ever. 

At  the  hour  of  bed-time,  therefore,  when  it  was  supposed  the 
recreant  disciple  would  seek  his  old  quarters,  every  thing  was 
prepared  for  his  reception.  Dolph,  having  talked  his  mother 
into  a  state  of  tranquillity,  sought  the  mansion  of  his  quondam 
master,  and  raised  the  knocker  with  a  faltering  hand.  Scarce- 
ly, however,  had  it  given  a  dubious  rap,  when  the  doctor's 
head,  in  a  red  night-cap,  popped  out  of  one  window,  and  the 
housekeeper's,  in  a  white  night-cap,  out  of  another.  He  was 
now  greeted  with  a  tremendous  volley  of  hard  names  and  hard 
language,  mingled  -with  invaluable  pieces  of  advice,  such  as  are 
seldom  ventured  to  be  given  excepting  to  a  friend  in  distress, 
or  a  culprit  at  the  bar.  In  a  few  moments,  not  a  window  in 
the  street  but  had  its  particular  night-cap,  listening  to  Hie 
shrill  treble  of  Frau  Ilsy,  and  the  guttural  croaking  of  Dr. 
Knipperhausen ;  and  the  word  went  from  window  to  window, 


308  BHACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

"  Ah!  here's  Dolph  Heyliger  come  back,  and  at  his  old  pranks 
again."  In  short,  poor  Dolph  found  he  was  likely  to  get 
nothing  from  the  doctor  but  good  advice — a  commodity  so 
abundant  as  even  to  be  thrown  out  of  the  window ;  so  he  was 
fain  to  beat  a  retreat,  and  take  up  his  quarters  for  the  night 
under  the  lowly  roof  of  honest  Peter  de  Groodt. 

The  next  morning,  bright  and  early,  Dolph  was  at  the 
haunted  house.  Every  thing  looked  just  as  he  had  left  it. 
The  fields  were  grass-grown  and  matted,  and  it  appeared  as  if 
nobody  had  traversed  them  since  his  departure.  With  palpi- 
tating heart,  he  hastened  to  the  well.  He  looked  down  into  it, 
and  saw  that  it  was  of  great  depth,  with  water  at  the  bottom. 
He  had  provided  himself  with  a  strong  line,  such  as  the  fish- 
ermen use  on  the  banks  of  Newfoundland.  At  the  end  was  a 
heavy  plummet  and  a  large  fish-hook.  With  this  he  began  to 
sound  the  bottom  of  the  well,  and  to  angle  about  in  the  water. 
He  found  that  the  water  was  of  some  depth;  there  appeared 
also  to  be  much  rubbish,  stones  from  the  top  having  fallen  in. 
Several  times  his  hook  got  entangled,  and  he  came  near  break- 
ing his  line.  Now  and  then,  too,  he  hauled  up  mere  trash, 
such  as  the  skull  of  a  horse,  an  iron  hoop,  and  a  shattered 
iron-bound  bucket.  He  had  now  been  several  hours  employed 
without  finding  any  thing  to  repay  his  trouble,  or  to  encourage 
him  to  proceed.  He  began  to  think  himself  a  great  fool,  to  be 
tints  decoyed  into  a  wild-goose-chase  by  mere  dreams,  and 
was  on  the  point  of  throwing  line  and  all  into  the  well,  and 
giving  up  all  further  angling. 

"  One  more  cast  of  the  line,"  said  he,  "  and  that  shall  be  the 
last."  As  he  sounded,  he  felt  the  plummet  slip,  as  it  were, 
through  the  interstices  of  loose  stones ;  and  as  he  drew  back 
the  line,  he  felt  that  the  hook  had  taken  hold  of  something 
heavy.  He  had  to  manage  his  line  with  great  caution,  lest  it 
should  be  broken  by  the  strain  upon  it.  By  degrees,  the  rub- 
bish that  lay  upon  the  article  which  he  had  hooked  gave  way ; 
he  drew  it  to  the  surface  of  the  water,  and  what  was  his  rap- 
ture at  seeing  something  like  silver  glittering  at  the  end  of  his 
line !  Almost  breathless  with  anxiety,  he  drew  it  up  to  the 
mouth  of  the  well,  surprised  at  its  great  weight,  and  fearing 
every  instant  that  his  hook  would  slip  from  its  hold,  and  his 
prize  tumble  again  to  the  bottom.  At  length  he  landed  it  safe 
beside  the  well.  It  was  a  great  silver  porringer,  of  an  ancient 
form,  richly  embossed,  and  with  armorial  bearings,  similar  to 
those  over  his  mother's  mantel-piece,  engraved  on  its  side. 


THE  STORM-SHIP.  309 

The  lid  was  fastened  down  by  several  twists  of  wire ;  Dolph 
loosened  them  with  a  trembling  hand,  and  on  lifting  the  lid, 
behold!  the  vessel  was  filled  with  broad  golden  pieces,  of  a 
coinage  which  he  had  never  seen  before!  It  was  evident  he 
had  lit  on  the  place  where  Killian  Yander  Spiegel  had  con- 
coaled  his  treasure. 

Fearful  of  being  seen  by  some  straggler,  he  cautiously  retired, 
and  buried  his  pot  of  money  in  a  secret  place.  He  now  spread 
terrible  stories  about  the  haunted  house,  and  deterred  every 
one  from  approaching  it,  while  he  made  frequent  visits  to  it  on 
stormy  days,  when  no  one  was  stirring  in  the  neighbouring 
fields;  though,  to  tell  the  truth,  he  did  not  care  to  venture 
there  in  the  dark.  For  once  in  his  life  he  was  diligent  and 
industrious,  and  followed  up  his  new  trade  of  angling  with 
such  perseverance  and  success,  that  in  a  little  while  he  had 
hooked  up  wealth  enough  to  make  him,  in  those  moderate  days, 
a  rich  burgher  for  life. 

It  would  be  tedious  to  detail  minutely  the  rest  of  this  story : 
— to  tell  how  he  gradually  managed  to  bring  his  property  into 
use  without  exciting  surpise  and  inquiry — how  he  satisfied  all 
scruples  with  regard  to  retaining  the  property,  and  at  the  same 
time  gratified  his  own  feelings,  by  marrying  the  pretty  Marie 
Yander  Hey  den — and  how  he  and  Heer  Antony  had  many  a 
merry  and  roving  expedition  together. 

I  must  not  omit  to  say,  however,  that  Dolph  took  his  mother 
home  to  live  with  him,  and  cherished  her  in  her  old  days.  The 
good  dame,  too,  had  the  satisfaction  of  no  longer  hearing  her 
son  made  the  theme  of  censure ;  on  the  contrary,  he  grew  daily 
in  public  esteem ;  every  body  spoke  well  of  him  and  his  wines, 
and  the  lordliest  burgomaster  was  never  known  to  decline  his 
invitation  to  dinner.  Dolph  often  related,  at  his  own  table, 
the  wicked  pranks  which  had  once  been  the  abhorrence  of  the 
town ;  but  they  were  now  considered  excellent  jokes,  and  the 
gravest  dignitary  was  fain  to  hold  his  sides  when  listening  to 
them.  No  one  was  more  struck  with  Dolph's  increasing  merit, 
than  his  old  master  the  doctor ;  and  so  forgiving  was  Dolph,  that 
he  actually  employed  the  doctor  as  his  family  physician,  only 
taking  care  that  his  prescriptions  should  be  always  thrown  out 
of  the  window.  His  mother  had  often  her  junto  of  old  cronies, 
to  take  a  snug  cup  of  tea  with  her  in  her  comfortable  little 
parlour;  and  Peter  de  Groodt,  as  he  sat  by  the  fire-side,  with 
One  of  her  grandchildren  on  his  knee,  would  many  a  time  con- 
gratulate her  upon  her  son  turning  out  so  great  a  man;  upou 


310  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

which  the  good  old  soul  would  wag  her  head  with  exultation, 
and  exclaim,  ' l  Ah,  neighbour,  neighbour !  did  I  not  say  that 
Dolph  would  one  day  or  other  hold  up  his  head  with  the  best  of 
them."" 

Thus  did  Dolph  Heyliger  go  on,  cheerily  and  prosperously, 
growing  merrier  as  he  grew  older  and  wiser,  and  completely 
falsifying  the  old  proverb  about  money  got  over  the  devil's 
back ;  for  he  made  good  use  of  his  wealth,  and  became  a  distin- 
guished citizen,  and  a  valuable  member  of  the  community.  He 
was  a  great  promoter  of  public  institutions,  such  as  beef -steak 
societies  and  catch-clubs.  He  presided  at  all  public  dinners, 
and  was  the  first  that  introduced  turtle  from  the  West  Indies, 
lie  improved  the  breed  of  race-horses  and  game-cocks,  and  was 
so  great  a  patron  of  modest  merit,  that  any  one  who  could  sing 
a  good  song,  or  tell  a  good  story,  was  sure  to  find  a  place  at  his 
table. 

He  was  a  member,  too,  of  the  corporation,  made  several  laws 
for  the  protection  of  game  and  oysters,  and  bequeathed  to  the 
board  a  large  silver  puuch-bowl,  made  out  of  the  identical 
porringer  before  mentioned,  and  which  is  in  the  possession  oi 
the  corporation  to  this  very  clay. 

Finally,  he  died,  in  a  florid  old  age,  of  an  apoplexy,  at  a  cor- 
poration feast,  and  was  buried  with  great  honours  in  the  yard 
of  the  little  Dutch  church  in  Garden-street,  where  his  tomb- 
stone may  still  be  seen,  with  a  modest  epitaph  in  Dutch,  by  hi 
friend  Mynheer  Justus  Benson,  an  ancient  and  excellent  poet 
the  province. 

The  foregoing  tale  rests  on  better  authority  than  most  tal* 
of  the  kind,  as  I  have  it  at  second-hand  from  the  lips  of  Dolpl 
Heyliger  himself.     He  never  related  it  till  towards  the  lattei 
part  of  his  life,  and  then  in  great  confidence,  (for  he  was  veri 
discreet,)  to  a  few  of  his  particular  cronies  at  his  own  table 
over  a  supernumerary  bowl  of  punch ;  and,  strange  as  the  hob- 
goblin  parts  of  the  story  may  seem,  there  never  was  a  single 
doubt  expressed  on  the  subject  by  any  of  his  guests.     It  ma] 
not  be  amiss,  before  concluding,  to  observe  that,  in  addition 
his  other  accomplishments,  Dolph  Heyliger  was  noted  for  bei 
the  ablest  drawer  of  the  long-bow  in  the  whole  province. 


THE    WEDDISG.  311 


THE  WEDDING. 

No  more,  no  more,  much  honour  aye  betide 

The  lofty  bridegroom  and  the  lovely  bride; 

That  all  of  their  succeeding  days  may  say, 

Each  day  appears  like  to  a  wedding-day.— Braithwaite. 

Notwithstanding  the  doubts  and  demurs  of  Lady  Lillycraft, 
and  all  the  grave  objections  that  were  conjured  up  against  the 
month  of  May,  yet  the  wedding  has  at  length  happily  taken 
place.  It  was  celebrated  at  the  village  church,  in  presence  of  a 
numerous  company  of  relatives  and  friends,  and  many  of  the 
tenantry.  The  Squire  must  needs  have  something  of  the  old 
ceremonies  observed  on  the  occasion;  so,  at  the  gate  of  the 
church-yard,  several  little  girls  of  the  village,  dressed  in  white, 
were  in  readiness  with  baskets  of  flowers,  which  they  strewed 
before  the  bride ;  and  the  butler  bore  before  her  the  bride-cup, 
a  great  silver  embossed  bowl,  one  of  the  family  relics  from  the 
days  of  the  hard  drinkers.  This  was  filled  with  rich  wine,  and 
decorated  with  a  branch  of  rosemary,  tied  with  gay  ribands, 
according  to  ancient  custom. 

"Happy  is  the  bride  that  the  sun  shines  on,1'  says  the  old 
proverb;  and  it  was  as  sunny  and  auspicious  a  morning  as 
heart  could  wish.  The  bride  looked  uncommonly  beautiful; 
but.  in  fact,  what  woman  does  not  look  interesting  on  her 
wedding-day?  I  know  no  sight  more  charming  and  touching 
than  that  of  a  young  and  timid  bride,  in  her  robes  of  virgin  white, 
led  up  trembling  to  the  altar.  When  I  thus  behold  a  lovely 
girl,  in  the  tenderness  of  her  years,  forsaking  the  house  of  her 
fathers  and  the  home  of  her  childhood;  and,  with  the  implicit 
confiding,  and  the  sweet  self-abandonment,  which  belong  to 
woman,  giving  up  all  the  world  for  the  man  of  her  choice : 
when  I  hear  her,  in  the  good  old  language  of  the  ritual,  yielding 
herself  to  him  "  for  better  for  worse,  for  richer  for  poorer,  in 
3ickness  and  in  health,  to  love,  honour  and  obey,  till  death  us  do 
part,"  it  brings  to  my  mind  the  beautiful  and  affecting  self- 
devotion  of  Ruth:  "Whither  thou  goest  I  will  go,  and  where 
thou  lodgest  I  will  lodge ;  thy  people  shall  be  my  people,  and 
thy  God  my  God." 

The  fair  Julia  was  supported  on  the  trying  occasion  by  Lady 
Lillycraft,  whose  heart  was  overflowing  with  its  wonted  sym- 
pathy in  all  matters  of  love  and  matrimony.  As  the  bride 
approached  the  altar,  her  face  would  be  one  moment  covered 


312  BRACEBR1D0E  HALL. 

with  blushes,  and  the  next  deadly  pale ;  and  she  seemed  almost 
ready  to  shrink  from  sight  among  her  female  companions. 

I  do  not  know  what  it  is  that  makes  every  one  serious,  and, 
as  it  were,  awe-struck,  at  a  marriage  ceremony — which  is  gen- 
erally considered  as  an  occasion  of  festivity  and  rejoicing.  As 
the  ceremony  was  performing,  I  observed  many  a  rosy  face 
among  the  country  girls  turn  pale,  and  I  did  not  see  a  smile 
throughout  the  church.  The  young  ladies  from  the  Hall  were 
almost  as  much  frightened  as  if  it  had  been  their  own  case, 
and  stole  many  a  look  of  sympathy  at  their  trembling  com- 
panion. A  tear  stood  in  the  eye  of  the  sensitive  Lady  Lilly- 
craft  ;  and  as  to  Phoebe  Wilkins,  who  was  present,  she  abso- 
lutely wept  and  sobbed  aloud ;  but  it  is  hard  to  tell,  half  the 
time,  what  these  fond  foolish  creatures  are  crying  about. 

The  captain,  too,  though  naturally  gay  and  unconcerned, 
was  much  agitated  on  the  occasion;  and,  in  attempting  to  put 
the  ring  upon  the  bride's  finger,  dropped  it  on  the  floor; 
which  Lady  Lillycraft  has  since  assured  me  is  a  very  lucky 
omen.  Even  Master  Simon  had  lost  his  usual  vivacity,  and 
had  assumed  a  most  whimsically  solemn  face,  winch  he  is  apt 
to  do  on  all  occasions  of  ceremony.  He  had  much  whispering 
with  the  parson  and  parish-clerk,  for  he  is  always  a  busy  per- 
sonage in  the  scene,  and  he  echoed  the  clerk's  amen  with  a 
solemnity  and  devotion  that  edified  the  whole  assemblage. 

The  moment,  however,  that  the  ceremony  was  over,  the 
transition  was  magical.  The  bride-cup  was  passed  round, 
according  to  ancient  usage,  for  the  company  to  drink  to  a 
happy  union ;  every  one's  feelings  seemed  to  break  forth  from 
restraint.  Master  Simon  had  a  world  of  bachelor  pleasantries 
to  utter;  and  as  to  the  gallant  general,  he  bowed  and  cooed 
about  the  dulcet  Lady  Lillycraft,  like  a  mighty  cock-pigeon 
about  his  dame. 

The  villagers  gathered  in  the  church-yard,  to  cheer  the  happy 
couple  as  they  left  the  church ;  and  the  musical  tailor  had  mar- 
shalled his  band,  and  set  up  a  hideous  discord,  as  the  blushing 
and  smiling  bride  passed  through  a  lane  of  honest  peasantry  to 
her  carriage.  The  children  shouted,  and  threw  up  their  hats ; 
the  bells  rung  a  merry  peal,  that  set  all  the  crows  and  rooks 
flying  and  cawing  about  the  air,  and  threatened  to  bring  down 
the  battlements*  of  the  old  tower ;  and  there  was  a  continual 
popping  off  of  rusty  fire-locks  from  every  part  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood. 

The  prodigal  son  distinguished  himself  on  the  occasion,  hav- 


THE    WEDDING.  3jy 

ing  hoisted  a  flag  on  the  top  of  the  school-house,  and  kept  the 
village  in  a  hubbub  from  sunrise,  with  the  sound  of  drum  and 
fife  and  pandean  pipe ;  in  which  species  of  music  several  of  his 
scholars  are  making  wonderful  proficiency.  In  his  great  zeal, 
however,  he  had  nearly  done  mischief;  for  on  returning  from 
church,  the  horses  of  the  bride's  carriage  took  fright  from  the 
discharge  of  a  row  of  old  gun-barrels,  which  he  had  mounted 
as  a  park  of  artillery  in  front  of  the  school-house,  to  give  the 
captain  a  military  salute  as  he  passed. 

The  day  passed  off  with  great  rustic  rejoicing.  Tables  were 
spread  under  the  trees  in  the  park,  where  all  the  peasantry  of 
the  neighbourhood  were  regaled  with  roast-beef  and  plum- 
pudding  and  oceans  of  ale.  Ready-Money  Jack  presided  at 
one  of  the  tables,  and  became  so  full  of  good  cheer,  as  to  un- 
bend from  his  usual  gravity,  to  sing  a  song  out  of  all  tune,  and 
give  two  or  three  shouts  of  laughter,  that  almost  electrified  his 
neighbours,  like  so  many  peals  of  thunder.  The  schoolmaster 
and  the  apothecary  vied  with  each  other  in  making  speeches 
over  their  liquor ;  and  there  were  occasional  glees  and  musical 
performances  by  the  village  band,  that  must  have  frightened 
every  faun  and  dryad  from  the  park.  Even  old  Christy,  who 
had  got  on  a  new  dress  from  top  to  toe,  and  shone  in  all  the 
splendour  of  bright  leather  breeches  and  an  enormous  wedding 
favour  in  his  cap,  forgot  his  usual  crustiness,  became  inspired 
by  wine  and  wassel,  and  absolutely  danced  a  hornpipe  on  one 
of  the  tables,  with  all  the  grace  and  agility  of  a  manikin  hung 
upon  wires. 

Equal  gayety  reigned  within  doors,  where  a  large  party  of 
friends  were  entertained.  Every  one  laughed  at  his  own 
bleasantry,  without  attending  to  that  of  his  neighbours. 
Loads  of  bride-cake  were  distributed.  The  young  ladies  were 
fill  busy  in  passing  morsels  of  it  through  the  wedding-ring  to 
q  on,  and  I  myself  assisted  a  few  little  boarding-school 
girls  in  putting  up  a  quantity  for  their  companions,  which  I 
have  no  doubt  will  set  all  the  little  heads  in  the  school  gadding, 
tor  a  week  at  least. 

After  dinner,  all  the  company,  great  and  small,  gentle  and 
simple,  abandoned  themselves  to  the  dance:  not  the  modern 
quadrille,  with  its  graceful  gravity,  but  the  merry,  social,  old 
country-dance;  the  true  dance,  as  the  Squire  says,  for  a  wed- 
ging occasion,  as;  it  sets  all  the  world  jigging  in  couples,  hand 
Riband,  and  makes  every  eye  and  every  heart  dance  merrily 
-to  the  music.     According  to  frank  old  usage,  the  gentlefolks  of 


^14  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

the  Hall  mingled  for  a  time  in  the  dance  of  the  peasantry,  w  no 
had  a  great  tent  erected  for  a  ball-room ;  and  I  think  I  never 
saw  Master  Simon  more  in  his  element,  than  when  figuring 
about  among  his  rustic  admirers,  as  master  of  the  ceremonies ; 
and.  with  a  mingled  air  of  protection  and  gallantry,  leading 
out  the  quondam  Queen  of  May,  all  blushing  at  the  signal 
honour  conferred  upon  her. 

In  the  evening  the  whole  village  was  illuminated,  excepting 
the  house  of  the  radical,  who  has  not  shown  his  face  during 
the  rejoicings.  There  was  a  display  of  fire-works  at  the 
school-house,  got  up  by  the  prodigal  son,  which  had  well-nigh 
set  fire  to  the  building.  The  Squire  is  so  much  pleased  with 
the  extraordinary  services  of  this  last  mentioned  worthy,  that 
he  talks  of  enrolling  him  in  his  list  of  valuable  retainers,  and 
promoting  him  to  some  important  post  on  the  estate;  per- 
ad  venture -to  be  falconer,  if  the  hawks  can  ever  be  brought 
into  proper  training. 

There  is  a  well-known  old  proverb,  that  says  "one  wedding 
makes  many,"— or  something  to  the  same  purpose;  and  I 
should  not  be  surprised  if  it  holds  good  in  the  present  instance. 
I  have  seen  several  flirtations  among  the  young  people,  that 
have  been  brought  together  on  this  occasion ;  and  a  great  deal 
of  strolling  about  in  pairs,  among  the  retired  walks  and  blos- 
soming shrubberies  of  the  old  garden :  and  if  groves  were  really 
given  to  whispering,  as  poets  would  fain  make  us  believe, 
Heaven  knows  what  love  tales  the  grave-looking  old  trees 
about  this  venerable  country-seat  might  blab  to  the  world. 

The  general,  too,  has  waxed  very  zealous  in  his  devotions 
within  the  last  few  days,  as  the  time  of  her  ladyship's  depar- 
ture approaches.  I  observed  him  casting  many  a  tender  look 
at  her  during  the  wedding  dinner,  while  the  courses  were 
changing;  though  he  was  always  liable  to  be  interrupted  in 
his  adoration  by  the  appearance  of  any  new  delicacy.  The 
general,  in  fact,  has  arrived  at  that  time  of  life  when  the  heart 
and  the  stomach  maintain  a  kind  of  balance  of  power,  and 
when  a  man  is  apt  to  be  perplexed  in  his  affections  between  a 
fine  woman  and  a  truffled  turkey.  Her  ladyship  was  certainly 
rivalled,  through  the  whole  of  the  first  course,  by  a  dish  of 
stewed  carp ;  and  there  was  one  glance,  which  was  evidently 
intended  to  be  a  point-blank  shot  at  her  heart,  and  could 
scarcely  have  failed  to  effect  a  practicable  breach,  had  it  not 
unluckily  been  directed  away  to  a  tempting  breast  of  lamb,  in 
winch  it  immediately  produced  a  formidable  incision. 


THE   WEDDING.  315 

Tims  did  this  faithless  general  go  en,  coquetting  during  the 
whole  dinner,  and  committing  an  infidelity  with  every  new 
dish :  until,  in  the  end,  he  was  so  o\  erpowered  by  the  attentions 
he  had  paid  to  fish,  flesh,  and  fowl;  to  pastry,  jelly,  cream,  and 
blanc-mange,  that  he  seemed  to  sink  within  himself :  his  eyefc 
swam  beneath  their  lids,  and  their  fire  was  so  much  slackened, 
that  he  could  no  longer  discharge  a  single  glance  that  would 
reach  across  the  table.  Upon  the  whole,  I  fear  the  general  ate 
himself  into  as  much  disgrace,  at  this  memorable  dinner,  as  I 
have  seen  him  sleep  himself  into  on  a  former  occasion. 

I  am  told,  moreover,  that  young  Jack  Tibbets  was  so  touched 
by  the  wedding  ceremony,  at  which  he  was  present,  and  so 
captivated  by  the  sensibility  of  poor  Phcebe  Wilkins,  who  cer- 
tainly looked  all  the  better  for  her  tears,  that  he  had  a  recon- 
ciliation with  her  that  very  day,  after  dinner,  in  one  of  the 
groves  of  the  park,  and  danced  with  her  in  the  evening ;  to  the 
complete  confusion  of  all  Dame  Tibbets'  domestic  politics.  I  met 
them  walking  together  in  the  park,  shortly  after  the  reconcili- 
ation must  have  taken  place.  Young  Jack  carried  himself 
gay]  y  and  manfully ;  but  Phoebe  hung  her  head,  blushing,  as  I 
approached.  However,  just  as  she  passed  me,  and  dropped  a 
curtsy.  I  caught  a  shy  gleam  of  her  eye  from  under  her  bon- 
net ;  but  it  was  immediately  cast  down  again.  I  saw  enough 
in  that  single  gleam,  and  in  the  involuntary  smile  that  dimpled 
about  her  rosy  lips,  to  feel  satisfied  that  the  little  gipsy's  heart 
was  happy  again. 

What  is  more,  Lady  Lillycraft,  with  her  usual  benevolence 
and  zeal  in  all  matters  of  this  tender  nature,  on  hearing  of  the 
reconciliation  of  the  lovers,  undertook  the  critical  task  of 
breaking  the  matter  to  Eeady-Money  Jack.  She  thought  there 
was  no  time  like  the  present,  and  attacked  the  sturdy  old  yeo- 
man that  very  evening  in  the  park,  while  his  heart  was  yet 
lifted  up  with  the  Squire's  good  cheer.  Jack  was  a  little  sur- 
prised at  being  drawn  aside  by  her  ladyship,  but  was  not  to  be 
flurried  by  such  an  honour:  he  was  still  more  surprised  by 
the  nature  of  her  communication,  and  by  this  first  intelligence 
of  an  affair  which  had  been  passing  under  his  eye.  He  listened, 
however,  with  his  usual  gravity,  as  her  ladyship  represented 
the  advantages  of  the  match,  the  good  qualities  of  the  girl,  and 
the  distress  which  she  had  lately  suffered:  vat  length  Ins  eve 
began  to  kindle,  and  his  hand  to  play  with  the  head 
cudgel.  Lady  Lillycraft  saw  that  something  in  the  nar 
had  gone  wrong,  and  hastened  !  ,  mollify  his  rising  ire  bv  reiter- 


316  BRACEBRIDGE  HALL. 

ating  the  soft-hearted  Phoebe's  merit  and  fidelity,  and  her 
great  unhappiness ;  when  old  Ready -Money  suddenly  inter- 
rupted her  by  exclaiming,  that  if  Jack  did  not  marry  the 
wench,  he'd  break  every  bone  in  his  body!  The  match,  there- 
fore, is  considered  a  settled  thing:  Dame  Tibbetsand  the  house- 
keeper have  made  friends,  and  drank  tea  together;  and  Phoebe 
has  again  recovered  her  good  looks  and  good  spirits,  and  is 
carolling  from  morning  till  night  like  a  lark. 

But  the  most  whimsical  caprice  of  Cupid  is  one  that  I  should 
be  almost  afraid  to  mention,  did  I  not  know  that  I  was  writing 
for  readers  well  experienced  in  the  waywardness  of  this  most 
mischievous  deity.  The  morning  after  the  wedding,  therefore, 
while  Lady  Lillycraft  was  making  preparations  for  her  depar- 
ture, an  audience  was  requested  by  her  immaculate  hand-maid, 
Mrs.  Hannah,  who,  with  much  primming  of  the  mouth,  and 
many  maidenly  hesitations,  requested  leaVe  to  stay  behind,  and 
that  Lady  Lillycraft  would  supply  her  place  with  some  other 
servant.  Her  ladyship  was  astonished:  uWhat!  Hannah 
going  to  quit  her,  that  had  lived  with  her  so  long !" 

''Why,  one  could  not  help  it;  one  must  settle  in  life  some 
time  or  other." 

The  good  lady  was  still  lost  in  amazement ;  at  length,  the 
secret  was  gasped  from  the  dry  lips  of  the  maiden  gentlewoman: 
11  She  had  been  some  time  thinking  of  changing  her  condi- 
tion, and  at  length  had  given  her  word,  last  evening,  to  Mr. 
Christy,  the  huntsman. 

How,  or  when,  or  where  this  singular  courtship  had  been 
carried  on,  I  have  not  been  able  to  learn ;  nor  how  she  has  been 
able,  with  the  vinegar  of  her  disposition,  to  soften  the  stony 
heart  of  old  Nimrod :  so,  however,  it  is,  and  it  has  astonished 
every  one.  With  all  her  ladyship's  love  of  match-making,  this 
last  fume  of  Hymen's  torch  has  been  too  much  for  her.  She 
has  endeavoured  to  reason  with  Mrs.  Hannah,  but  all  in  vain; 
her  mind  was  made  up,  and  she  grew  tart  on  the  least  contra- 
diction. Lady  Lillycraft  applied  to  the  Squire  for  his  interfer- 
ence. ' '  She  did  not  know  what  she  should  do  without  Mrs. 
Hannah,  she  had  been  used  to  have  her  about  her  so  long  a 
time. " 

The  Squire,  on  the  contrary,  rejoiced  in  the  match,  as  reliev- 
ing the  good  lady  from  a  kind  of  toilet-tyrant,  under  whose 
sway  she  had  suffered  for  years.  Instead  of  thwarting  the 
affair,  therefore,  he  has  given  it  his  full  countenance ;  and 
declares  that  he  will  set  up  the  young  couple  in  one  of  the  best 


THE   WEDDING.  317 

cottages  on  his  estate.  The  approbation  of  the  Squire  has  been 
followed  by  that  of  the  whole  household ;  they  all  declare,  that 
if  ever  matches  are  really  made  in  heaven,  this  must  have  been ; 
for  that  old  Christy  and  Mrs.  Hannah  were  as  evidently  formed 
to  be  linked  together,  as  ever  were  pepper-box  and  vinegar 
cruet. 

As  soon  as  this  matter  was  arranged,  Lady  Lilly  craft  took 
her  leave  of  the  family  at  the  Hall ;  taking  with  her  the  captain 
and  his  blushing  bride,  who  are  to  pass  the  honeymoon  with 
her.  Master  Simon  accompanied  them  on  horseback,  and 
indeed  means  to  ride  on  ahead  to  make  preparations.  The  gen- 
eral, who  was  fishing  in  vain  for  an  invitation  to  her  seat, 
handed  her  ladyship  into  the  carriage  with  a  heavy  sigh ;  upon 
which  his  bosom  friend,  Master  Simon,  who  was  just  mounting 
his  horse,  gave  me  a  knowing  wink,  made  an  abominably  wry 
face,  and,  leaning  from  his  saddle,  whispered  loudly  in  my  ear, 
"  It  won't  do !"  Then,  putting  spurs  to  his  horse,  away  he  can- 
tered off.  The  general  stood  for  some  time  waving  his  hat 
after  the  carriage  as  it  rolled  down  the  avenue,  until  he  was 
eeized  with  a  fit  of  sneezing,  from  exposing  his  head  to  the  cool 
breeze.  I  observed  that  he  returned  rather  thoughtfully  to  the 
house ;  whistling  softly  to  himself,  with  his  hands  behind  his 
back,  and  an  exceedingly  dubious  air. 

The  company  have  now  almost  ail  taken  their  departure ;  I 
have  determined  to  do  the  same  to-morrow  morning;  and  I 
hope  my  reader  may  not  think  that  I  have  already  lingered  too 
long  at  the  Hall  I  have  Deen  tempted  to  do  so,  however, 
because  I  thought  I  had  lit  upon  one  of  the  retired  places  where 
there  are  yet  some  traces  to  be  met  with  of  old  English  character. 
A.  little  while  hence,  and  all  these  will  probably  have  passed 
away.  Ready-Money  Jack  will  sleep  with  his  fathers :  the  good 
Squire,  and  all  his  peculiarities,  will  be  buried  in  the  neighbour- 
ing church.  The  old  Hall  will  be  modernized  into  a  fashionable 
country -se; it.  or,  peradventure,  a  manufactory.  The  park  will 
be  cut  up  into  petty  farms  and  kitchen-gardens.  A  daily  coach 
will  run  through  the  village;  it  will  become,  like  all  other 
commonplace  villages,  thronged  with  coachmen,  post-boys, 
tipplers,  and  politicians:  and  Christmas,  May-day,  and  all  the 
other  hearty  merry-makings  of  the  ' '  good  old  times, "  will  be 
forgotten. 


318  BRACEBRIDOE  HALL. 


THE  AUTHOR'S  FAREWELL. 

And  so  without  more  circumstance  at  all, 

I  hold  it  fit  that  we  shake  hands  and  part.— Hamlet. 

Having  taken  leave  of  the  Hall  and  its  inmates,  and  brought 
the  history  of  my  visit  to  something  like  a  close,  there  seems 
fco  remain  nothing  further  than  to  make  my  bow,  and  exit.  It 
is  my  foible,  however,  to  get  on  such  companionable  terms 
with  my  reader  in  the  course  of  a  work,  that  it  really  costs  me 
some  pain  to  part  with  him ;  and  I  am  apt  to  keep  him  by  the 
hand,  and  have  a  few  farewell  words  at  the  end  of  my  last 
volume. 

When  I  cast  an  eye  back  upon  the  work  I  am  just  conclud- 
ing, I  cannot  but  be  sensible  how  full  it  must  6e  of  errors  and 
imperfections :  indeed,  how  should  it  be  otherwise,  writing  as  I 
do  about  subjects  and  scenes  with  which,  as  a  stranger,  I  am 
but  partially  acquainted?  Many  will  doubtless  find  cause  to 
smile  at  very  obvious  blunders  which  I  may  have  made ;  and 
many  may,  perhaps,  be  offended  at  what  they  may  conceive 
prejudiced  representations.  Some  will  think  I  might  have  said 
much  more  on  such  subjects  as  may  suit  their  peculiar  tastes; 
whilst  others  will  think  I  had  done  wiser  to  have  left  those  sub- 
jects entirely  alone. 

It  will  probably  be  said,  too,  by  some,  that  I  view  England 
with  a  partial  eye.  Perhaps  I  do ;  for  I  can  never  forget  that 
it  is  my  "father  land."  And  yet,  the  circumstances  under 
which  I  have  viewed  it  have  by  no  means  been  such  as  were 
calculated  to  produce  favourable  impressions.  For  the  greater 
part  of  the  time  that  I  have  resided  in  it,  I  have  lived  almost 
unknowing  and  unknown ;  seeking  no  favours,  and  receiving 
none:  "  a  stranger  and  a  sojourner  in  the  land,"  and  subject 
to  all  the  chills  and  neglects  that  are  the  common  lot  of  the 
stranger. 

When  I  consider  these  circumstances,  and  recollect  how  often 
I  have  taken  up  my  pen,  with  a  mind  ill  at  ease,  and  spirits 
much  dejected  and  cast  down,  I  cannot  but  think  I  was  not 
likely  to  err  on  the  favourable  side  of  the  picture.  The  opin- 
ions I  have  given  of  English  character  have  been  the  result  of 
much  quiet,  dispassionate,  and  varied  observation.  It  is  a 
character  not  to  be  hastily  studied,  for  it  always  puts  on  a  re- 
pulsive and  ungracious  aspect  to  a  stranger.     Let  those,  then, 


TBB  AVTUOKb   FAREWELL.      „  319 

who  condemn  my  representations  as  too  favourable,  observe 
this  people  as  closely  and  deliberately  as  I  have  done,  and  they 
will,  probably,  change  their  opinion.  Of  one  thing,  at  any 
rate,  I  ani  certain,  that  I  have  spoken  honestly  and  sincerely, 
from  the  convictions  of  my  mind,  and  the  dictates  of  my  heart. 
When  I  first  published  my  former  writings,  it  was  with  no 
hope  of  gaining  favour  in  English  eyes,  for  I  little  thought  they 
were  to  become  current  out  of  my  own  country :  and  had  I 
merely  sought  popularity  among  my  own  countrymen,  I  should 
have  taken  a  more  direct  and  obvious  wTay,  by  gratifying 
rather  than  rebuking  the  angry  feelings  that  were  then  preva- 
lent against  England. 

And  here  let  me  acknowledge  my  warm,  my  thankful  feel- 
ings, at  the  effect  produced  by  one  of  my  trivial  lucubrations. 
I  allude  to  the  essay  in  the  Sketch-Book,  on  the  subject  of  the 
literary  feuds  between  England  and  America.  I  cannot  ex- 
press the  heartfelt  delight  I  have  experienced,  at  the  unex- 
pected sympathy  and  approbation  with  which  those  remarks 
have  been  received  on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic.  I  speak  this 
not  from  any  paltry  feelings  of  gratified  vanity;  for  I  attribute 
the  effect  to  no  merit  of  my  pen.  The  paper  in  question  was 
brief  and  casual,  and  the  ideas  it  conveyed  were  simple  and 
obvious.  "It  was  the  cause:  it  was  the  cause'' alone.  There 
was  a  predisposition  on  the  part  of  my  readers  to  be  favourably 
affected.  My  countrymen  responded  in  heart  to  the  filial  feel- 
ings I  had  avowed  in  their  name  towards  the  parent  country : 
and  there  was  a  generous  sympathy  in  every  English  bosom 
towards  a  solitary  individual,  lifting  up  his  voice  in  a  strange 
land,  to  vindicate  the  injured  character  of  his  nation.  There 
are  some  causes  so  sacred  as  to  carry  with  them  an  irresistible 
appeal  to  every  virtuous  bosom ;  and  he  needs  but  little  power 
of  eloquence,  who  defends  the  honour  of  his  wife,  his  mother, 
or  his  country. 

I  hail,  therefore,  the  success  of  that  brief  paper,  as  showing 
how  much  good  may  be  done  by  a  kind  word,  however  feeble, 
when  spoken  in  season — as  showing  how  much  dormant  good- 
feeling  actually  exists  in  each  country,  towards  the  other, 
which  only  wants  the  slightest  spark  to  kindle  it  into  a  genial 
flame — as  showing,  in  fact,  what  I  have  all  along  believed  and 
asserted,  that  the  two  nations  would  grow  together  in  esteem 
and  amity,  if  meddling  and  malignant  spirits  would  but  throw 
by  their  mischievous  pens,  and  leave  kindred  hearts  to  the 
kindly  impulses  of  nature. 


320  BRACKmuVGE  HALL. 

I  once  more  assert,  and  I  assert  it  with  increased  conviction 
Df  its  truth,  that  there  exists,  among  the  great  majority  of  my 
countrymen,  a  favourable  feeling  toward  England.  I  repeat 
this  assertion,  because  I  think  it  a  truth  that  cannot  too  often 
be  reiterated,  and  because  it  has  met  with  some  contradiction. 
Among  all  the  liberal  and  enlightened  minds  of  my  country- 
men, among  all  those  which  eventually  give  a  tone  to  national 
opinion,  there  exists  a  cordial  desire  to  be  on  terms  of  courtesy 
and  friendship.  But  at  the  same  time,  there  exists  in  those 
very  minds  a  distrust  of  reciprocal  good-will  on  the  part  of 
England.  They  have  been  rendered  morbidly  sensitive  by  the 
attacks  made  upon  their  country  by  the  English  press;  and 
their  occasional  irritability  on  this  subject  has  been  misinter- 
preted into  a  settled  and  unnatural  hostility. 

For  my  part,  I  consider  this  jealous  sensibility  as  belonging 
to  generous  natures.  I  should  look  upon  my  countrymen  as 
fallen  indeed  from  that  independence  of  spirit  which  is  their 
birth-gift;  as  fallen  indeed  from  that  pride  of  character  which 
they  inherit  from  the  proud  nation  from  which  they  sprung, 
could  they  tamely  sit  down  under  the  infliction  of  contumely 
and  insult.  Indeed,  the  very  impatience  which  they  show  as 
to  the  misrepresentations  of  the  press,  proves  their  respect  for 
English  opinion,  and  their  desire  for  English  amity;  for  there 
is  never  jealousy  where  there  is  not  strong  regard. 

It  is  easy  to  say,  that  these  attacks  are  all  the  effusions  of 
worthless  scribblers,  and  treated  with  silent  contempt  by  the 
nation ;  but,  alas !  the  slanders  of  the  scribbler  travel  abroad, 
and  the  silent  contempt  of  the  nation  is  only  known  at  home. 
With  England,  then,  it  remains,  as  I  have  formerly  asserted, 
to  promote  a  mutual  spirit  of  conciliation ;  she  has  but  to  hold 
the  language  of  friendship  and  respect,  and  she  is  secure  of  the 
good- will  of  every  American  bosom. 

In  expressing  these  sentiments,  I  would  utter  nothing  that 
should  commit  the  proper  spirit  of  my  countrymen.  We  seek 
no  boon  at  England's  hands:  we  ask  nothing  as  a  favour. 
Her  friendship  is  not  necessary,  nor  would  her  hostility  be 
dangerous  to  our  well-being.  We  ask  nothing  from  abroad 
that  we  cannot  reciprocate.  But  with  respect  to  England,  we 
have  a  warm  feeling  of  the  heart,  the  glow  of  consanguinity 
that  still  lingers  in  our  blood.  Interest  apart — past  differences 
forgotten — we  extend  the  hand  of  old  relationship.  We  merely 
ask,  do  not  estrange  us  from  you ;  do  not  destroy  the  ancient 
tie  of  blood ;  do  not  let  scoffers  and  slanderers  drive  a  kindred 


77/ A'  A  UTIIOll'S   FAREWELL.  321 

nation  from  your  side ;  we  would  fain  be  friends ;  do  not  com- 
pel us  to  be  enemies. 

There  needs  no  better  rally  in  g-ground  for  international 
amity,  than  that  furnished  by  an  eminent  English  writer: 
''There  is,"  say  she,  "a  sacred  bond  between  us  of  blood  and  of 
language,  which  no  circumstances  can  break.  Our  literature 
must  always  be  theirs;  and  though  their  laws  are  no  longer 
the  same  as  ours,  we  have  the  same  Bible,  and  we  address  our 
common  Father  in  the  same  prayer.  Nations  are  too  ready  to 
admit  that  they  have  natural  enemies;  why  should  they  be 
less  willing  to  believe  that  they  have  natural  friends?"* 

To  the  magnanimous  spirits  of  both  countries  must  we  trust 
to  carry  such  a  natural  alliance  of  affection  into  full  effect.  To 
pens  more  powerful  than  mine,  I  leave  the  noble  task  of  pro- 
moting the  cause  of  national  amity.  To  the  intelligent  and  en- 
lightened of  my  own  country,  I  address  my  parting  voice, 
entreating  them  to  show  themselves  superior  to  the  petty 
attacks  of  the  ignorant  and  the  worthless,  and  still  to  look  with 
dispassionate  and  philosophic  eye  to  the  moral  character  of 
England,  as  the  intellectual  source  of  our  rising  greatness; 
while  I  appeal  to  every  generous-minded  Englishman  from  the 
slanders  which  disgrace  the  press,  insult  the  understanding, 
and  belie  the  magnanimity  of  his  country :  and  I  invite  him  to 
look  to  America,  as  to  a  kindred  nation,  worthy  of  its  origin ; 
giving,  in  the  healthy  vigour  of  its  growth,  the  best  of  com- 
ments on  its  parent  stock;  and  reflecting,  in  the  dawning 
brightness  of  its  fame,  the  moral  effulgence  of  British  glory. 

I  am  sure  that  such  an  appeal  will  not  be  made  in  vain.  In- 
deed, I  have  noticed,  for  some  time  past,  an  essential  cnange  n? 
English  sentiment  with  regard  to  America.  In  parliament, 
that  fountain-head  of  public  opinion,  there  seems  to  be  an 
emulation,  on  both  sides  of  the  house,  in  holding  the  language 
of  courtesy  and  friendship.  The  same  spirit  is  daily  becoming 
more  and  more  prevalent  in  good  society.  There  is  a  growing 
curiosity  concerning  my  country ;  a  craving  desire  for  correct  ■ 
information,  that  cannot  fail  to  lead  to  a  favourable  under 
standing.  The  scoffer,  I  trust,  has  had  his  day;  the  time  of 
the  slanderer  is  gone  by ;  the  ribald  jokes,  the  stale  common- 
places, which  have  so  long  passed  current  when  America  was 


*  From  an  article  (said  to  be  by  Robert  Soutbey,  Esq.)  published  in  the  Quarterly 
Review.  It  is  to  be  lamented  that  that  publication  should  so  ofteu  forget  the  gen 
erous  text  here  given ! 


322 


nKA'-EBRIDGE  HALL. 


the  theme,  are  now  banished  to  the  ignorant  and  the  vulgar, 
or  only  perpetuated  by  the  hireling  scribblers  and  traditional 
jesters  of  the  press.  The  intelligent  and  high-minded  now 
pride  themselves  upon  making  America  a  study. 

But  however  my  feelings  may  be  understood  or  reciprocated 
on  either  side  of  the  Atlantic,  I  utter  them  without  reserve,  for 
I  have  ever  found  that  to  speak  frankly  is  to  speak  safely.  I 
am  not  so  sanguine  as  to  believe  that  the  two  nations  are  ever 
to  be  bound  together  by  any  romantic  ties  of  feeling;  but  I 
believe  that  much  may  be  done  towards  keeping  alive  cor- 
dial sentiments,  were  every  well-disposed  mind  occasionally  to 
throw  in  a  simple  word  of  kindness.  If  I  have,  indeed,  pro- 
duced any  such  effect  by  my  writings,  it  will  be  a  soothing  re- 
flection to  me,  that  for  once,  in  the  course  of  a  rather  negligent 
life,  I  have  been  useful ;  that  for  once,  by  the  casual  exercise 
of  a  pen  which  has  been  in  general  but  too  unprofitably  em- 
ployed, I  have  awakened  a  cord  of  sympathy  between  the  land 
of  my  fathers  and  the  dear  land  that  gave  me  birth. 

In  the  spirit  of  these  sentiments,  I  now  take  my  farewell  of 
the  paternal  soil.  With  anxious  eye  do  I  behold  the  clouds  of 
doubt  and  difficulty  that  are  lowering  over  it,  and  earnestly  do 
I  hope  that  they  may  all  clear  up  into  serene  and  settled  sun- 
shine. In  bidding  this  last  adieu,  my  heart  is  filled  with  fond, 
yet  melancholy  emotions;  and  still  I  linger,  and  still,  like  a 
child  leaving  the  venerable  abodes  of  his  forefathers,  I  turn  to 
breathe  forth  a  filial  benediction :  Peace  be  within  thy  walls, 
0  England!  and  plenteousness  within  thy  palaces;  for  my 
brethren  and  my  companions'  sake  I  will  now  say,  Peace  be 
within  thee  r 


ABBOTSFOED 


AND 


NEWSTEAD    ABBEY 


BY 


WASHINGTON     IRVING 


ABBOTSFOBD  AND  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY 


CONTENTS. 


Abbotsford ,    o 

Kewstead  Abbey 55 

Arrival  at  the  Abbey. ...  62 

Abbey  Garden 66 

Plough  Monday 71 

Old  Servants 73 

sfperstitions  of  the  abbey 77 

Annesley  Hall , Jl 

The  Lake 9£ 

Robin  Hood  and  Sherwood  Forest 100 

Rook  Cell :ot 

Little  White  Lady 110 


ABBOTSFORD. 


I  sit  down  to  perform  my  promise  of  giving  you  an  account  of 
a  visit  made  many  years  since  to  Abbotsf ord.  I  hope,  however, 
that  you  do  not  expect  much  from  me,  for  the  travelling  notes 
taken  at  the  time  are  so  scanty  and  vague,  and  my  memory  so 
extremely  fallacious,  that  I  fear  I  shall  disappoint  you  with 
the  meagreness  and  crudeness  of  my  details. 

Late  in  the  evening  of  August  29,  1817,  I  arrived  at  the  an- 
cient little  border  town  of  Selkirk,  where  I  put  up  for  the 
night.  I  had  come  down  from  Edinburgh,  partly  to  visit 
Melrose  Abbey  and  its  vicinity,  but  chiefly  to  get  sight  of  the 
|mighty  minstrel  of  the  north. "  I  had  a  letter  of  introduction 
to  him  from  Thomas  Campbell,  the  poet,  and  had  reason  to 
think,  from  the  interest  he  had  taken  in  some  of  my  earlier 
scribblings,  that  a  visit  from  me  would  not  be  deemed  an  in- 
trusion. 

On  the  following  morning,  after  an  early  breakfast,  I  set  off 
in  a  postchaise  for  the  Abbey.  On  the  way  thither  I  stopped 
at  the  gate  of  Abbotsford,  and  sent  the  postilion  to  the  house 
with  the  letter  of  introduction  and  my  card,  on  which  I  had 
written  that  I  was  on  my  way  to  the  ruins  of  Melrose  Abbey, 
and  wished  to  know  whether  it  would  be  agreeable  to  Mr. 
Scott  (he  had  not  yet  been  made  a  Baronet)  to  receive  a  visit 
from  me  in  the  course  of  the  morning. 

While  the  postilion  was  on  his  errand,  I  had  time  to  survey 
the  mansion.  It  stood  some  short  distance  below  the  road,  on 
the  side  of  a  hill  sweeping  down  to  the  Tweed ;  and  was  as  yet 
but  a  snug  gentleman's  cottage,  with  something  rural  and  pic- 
[ue  in  its  appearance.  The  whole  front  was  overrun  with 
evergreens,  and  immediately  above  the  portal  was  a  great  pair 
of  elk  horns,  branching  out  from  beneath  the  foliage,  and  giv- 
ing the  cottage  the  look  of  a  hunting  lodge.  The  huge  baronial 
pi1^  to  which  this  modest  mansion  in  a  manner  gave  birth, 


6  ABBOTSFORD. 

was  just  emerging  into  existence;  part  of  the  Avails,  sur- 
rounded by  scaffolding,  already  had  risen  to  the  height  of  the. 
cottage,  and  the  courtyard  in  front  was  encumbered  by  masses 
of  hewn  stone. 

The  noise  of  the  chaise  had  disturbed  the  quiet  of  the  estabj 
lishment.     Out  sallied  the  warder  of  the  castle,  a  block  greyi 
hound,  and,  leaping  on  one  of  the  blocks  of  stone,  began  aj 
furious  barking.     His  alarum  brought  out  the  whole  garrison* 
of  dogs : 

"  Both  mongrel,  puppy,  whelp,  and  hound, 
And  curs  of  low  degree;'" 

all  open-mouthed  and  vociferous.— I  should  correct  my  quota- 
i ion:— not  a  cur  was  to  be  seen  on  the  premises:  Scott  was 
too  true  a  sportsman,  and  had  too  high  a  veneration  for  pure 
blood,  to  tolerate  a  mongrel. 

In  a  little  while  the  "lord  of  the  castle"  himself  made  his 
appearance.  I  knew  him  at  once  by  the  descriptions  I  had 
read  and  heard,  and  the  likenesses  that  had  been  published  of 
him.  lie  was  tall,  and  of  a  large  and  powerful  frame.  His* 
dress  was  simple,  and  almost  rustic.  An  old  green  shooting- 
coat,  with  a  dog- whistle  at  the  buttonhole,  brown  linen  panta- 
loons, stout  shoes  that  tied  at  the  ankles,  and  a  white  hat  that 
had  evidently  seen  service.  He  came  limping  up  the  gravel 
walk,  aiding  himself  by  a  stout  walking-staff,  but  movinl 
rapidly  and  with  vigor.  By  his  side  jogged  along  a  large  irons 
gray  stag-hound  of  most  grave  demeanor,  who  took  no  pai't  in 
the  clamor  of  the  canine  rabble,  but  seemed  to  consider  himself 
bound,  for  the  dignity  of  >the  house,  to  give  me  a  courteous  re- 
ception. 

Before  Scott  had  reached  the  gate  he  called  out  in  a  hearty 
tone,  welcoming  me  to  Abbotsford,  and  asking  news  of  Camp- 
bell. Arrived  at  the  door  of  the  chaise,  he  grasped  me  warmly 
by  the  hand:  "  Come,  drive  down,  drive  down  to  the  house," 
said  he,  "ye're  just  in  time  for  breakfast,  and  afterward  ye 
shall  see  all  the  wonders  of  the  Abbey." 

I  would  have  excused  myself,  on  the  plea  of  having  already 
made  my  breakfast.  "  Hout,  man,"  cried  he,  "a  ride  in  th| 
morning  in  the  keen  air  of  the  Scotch  hills  is  warrant  enough 
for  a  second  breakfast. " 

I  was  accordingly  whirled  to  the  portal  of  the  cottage,  and  in 
a  few  moments  found  myself  seated  at  the  breakfast-table. 
There  was  no  one  present  but  the  family,  which  consisted  of 
Mrs.  Scott,  her  eldest  daughter  Sophia,  then  a  fine  girl  about 


MiBOTSFORD.  7 

seventeen.  Miss  Ann  Scott,  two  or  three  years  younger,  Walter, 
a  well-grown  stripling,  and  Charles,  a  lively  boy,  eleven  or 
twelve  years  of  age.  I  soon  felt  myself  quite  at  home,  and  my 
heart  in  a  glow  with  the  cordial  welcome  I  experienced.  I  had 
thought  to  make  a  mere  morning  visit,  but  found  I  was  not  to 
be  let  off  so  lightly.  "  You  must  not  think  our  neighborhood 
is  to  be  read  in  a  morning,  like  a  newspaper, "'  said  Scott.  "It 
-  several  days  of  study  for  an  observant  traveller  that  has 
a  relish  for  auld  world  trumpery.  After  breakfast  you  shall 
make  your  visit  to  Melrose  Abbey ;  I  shall  not  be  able  to  ac- 
company you,  as  I  have  some  household  affairs  to  attend  to, 
but  I  will  put  you  in  charge  of  my  son  Charles,  who  is  very 
learned  in  all  things  touching  the  old  ruin  and  the  neighbor- 
hood it  stands  in,  and  he  and  my  friend  Johnny  Bower  will  tell 
you  the  whole  truth  about  it,  with  a  good  deal  more  that  you 
are  not  called  upon  to  believe— unless  you  be  a  true  and  noth- 
ing-doubting antiquary.  When  you  come  back,  I'll  take  you 
out  on  a  ramble  about  the  neighborhood.  To-morrow  we  will 
take  a  look  at  the  Yarrow,  and  the  next  day  we  will  drive  over 
to  Dryburgh  Abbey,  winch  is  a  fine  old  ruin  well  worth  your 
seeing'' — in  a  word,  before  Scott  had  got  through  his  plan,  I 
found  myself  committed  for  a  visit  of  several  days,  and  it 
seemed  as  if  a  little  realm  of  romance  was  suddenly  opened  be- 
fore me. 


After  breakfast  I  accordingly  set  off  for  the  Abbey  with  my 
tittle  Mend  Charles,  whom  I  found  a  most  sprightly  and  enter- 
taining companion.  He  had  an  ample  stock  of  anecdote  about 
the  neighborhood,  which  he  had  learned  from  his  father,  and 
many  quaint  remarks  and  sly  jokes,  evidently  derived  from 
the  same  source,  all  which  were  uttered  with  a  Scottish  ac- 
cent and  a  mixture  of  Scottish  phraseology,  that  gave  them 
additional  flavor. 

On  our  way  to  the  Abbey  he  gave  me  some  anecdotes  of 
Johnny  Bower  to  whom  his  father  had  alluded ;  he  was  sexton 
of  the  parish  and  custodian  of  the  ruin,  employed  to  keep  it  in 
order  and  show  it  to  strangers;— a  worthy  little  man,  not  with- 
out ambition  in  his  humble  sphere.  The  death  of  his  predeces- 
sor had  been  mentioned  in  the  newspapers,  so  that  his  name 
had  appeared  in  print  throughout  the  land.  When  Johnny 
succeeded  to  the  guardianship  of  the  ruin,  he  stipulated  that,  on 
his  death,  his  name  should  receive  like  honorable  blazon;  with 


8  ABBOTSFORD. 

this  addition,  that  it  should  be  from  the  pen  of  Scott.  The 
latter  grave  ly  pledged  himself  to  pay  this  tribute  to  his  memory] 
and  Johnny  now  lived  in  the  proud  anticipation  of  a  poetic 
immortality. 

I  found  Johnny  Bower  a  decent-looking  little  old  man,  in 
blue  coat  and  red  waistcoat.  He  received  us  with  much  greetT 
in--,  and  seemed  delighted  to  see  my  young  companion,  who 
was  full  of  merriment  and  waggery,  drawing  out  his  peculiars 
for  my  amusement.  The  old  man  was  one  of  the  most^ 
authentic  and  particular  of  cicerones;  he  pointed  out  every- 
thing in  the  Abbey  that  had  been  described  by  Scott  in  his] 
"Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel:"  and  would  repeat,  with  broad 
Scottish  accent,  the  passage  which  celebrated  it. 

Thus,  in  passing  through  the  cloisters,  he  made  me  remark  the 
beautiful  carvings  of  i  I  flowers  wrought  in  stone  with 

the  most  exquisite  delicacy,  and,  notwithstanding  the  lapse  of  \ 
ries,  retaining  their  sharpness  as  if  fresh  from  the  chisel! 
rivalling,  as  Scott  has  said,  the  real  objects  of  which  they  were 
imitations : 

"  Nor  herb  nor  flowret  glistened  there 
But  was  carved  in  the  cloister  arches  as  fair." 

He  pointed  out,  also,  among  the  carved  work  a  nun's  head  of 
much  beauty,  which  he  said  Scott  always  stopped  to  admire— 1 
the  shirra  had  a  wonderful  eye  for  all  sic  matters." 

I  would  observe  that  Scott  seemed  to  derive  more  consequence 
in  the  neighborhood  from  being  sheriff  of  the  county  than  from 
being  poet 

In  the  interior  of  the  Abbey  Johnny  Bower  conducted  me  to 
the  identical  stone  on  which  Stout  William  of  Deloraine  raid 
the  monk  took  their  seat  on  that  memorable  night  when  the 
wizard's  book  was  to  be  rescued  from  the  grave.  Nay,  Johnny 
had  even  gone  beyond  Scott  in  the  minuteness  of  his  antiquarian 
research,  for  he  had  discovered  the  very  tomb  of  the  wizard, 
the  position  of  which  had  been  left  in  doubt  by  the  poet.  This 
he  boasted  to  have  ascertained  by  the  position  of  the  oriel  win- 
dow, and  the  direction  in  which  the  moonbeams  fell  at  night, 
through  the  stained  glass,  casting  the  shadow  to  the  red  cross 
on  the  spot ;  as  had  all  been  specified  in  the  poem.  "I  pointed 
out  the  whole  to  the  shirra,"  said  he,  "and  he  could  na'  gain- 
say but  it  was  varra  clear."  I  found  afterward  that  Scott  used 
to  amuse  himself  with  the  simplicity  of  the  old  man,  and  his 
in  verifying  every  passage  of  the  poem,  as  though  it  had 


ABB0T8F0RD.  1) 

(been  authentic  history,  and  that  he  always  acquiesced  in  hi? 
Seductions.  I  subjoin  the  description  of  the  wizard's  grave, 
which  called  forth  the  antiquarian  research  of  Johnny  Bowei\ 

Lo  warrior!  now  the  cross  of  red, 

Points  to  the  grave  of  the  mighty  dead; 

Slow  moved  the  monk  to  the  broad  Hag-stone, 

Which  the  bloody  cross  was  traced  upon: 

He  pointed  to  a  sacred  nook: 

An  iron  bar  the  warrior  took; 

And  the  monk  made  a  si^n  with  his  withered  hand, 

The  grave's  huge  portal  to  expand. 

"  It  was  by  dint  of  passing  strength, 
That  he  moved  the  massy  stone  at  length. 
I  would  you  had  been  there  to  see, 
How  the  light  broke  forth  so  gloriously, 
Streamed  upward  to  the  chancel  roof, 
And  through  the  galleries  far  aloof! 

And,  issuing  from  the  tomb, 
Showed  the  monk's  cowl  and  visage  pale, 
Danced  on  the  dark  brown  warrior's  mail, 

And  kissed  his  waving  plume. 

;  Before  their  eyes  the  wizard  lay, 
As  if  he  had  not  been  dead  a  day: 
His  hoary  beard  in  silver  rolled, 
He  seemed  some  seventy  winters  old; 
A  palmer  s  amice  wrapped  him  round; 
With  a  wrought  Spanish  baldric  bound, 

Like  a  pilgrim  from  beyond  the  sea; 
His  left  hand  held  his  book  of  might: 
A  silver  cross  was  in  his  right : 

TIi.'  lamp  was  placed  beside  his  knee.'1 

The  fictions  of  Scott  had  become  facts  with  honest  Johnny 
Bower.  From  constantly  living  among  the  ruins  of  Melrose 
Abbey,  and  pointing  out  the  scenes  of  the  poem,  the  J4  Lay  of 
the  Last  .Minstrel "  had,  in  a  manner,  become  interwoven  with 
bis  whole  existence,  and  I  doubt  whether  he  did  not  now  and 
i  nix  up  his  own  identity  with  the  personages  of  some  of 
BB  cantos. 

He  could  not  bear  that  any  other  production  of  the 
should  be  preferred   to    the    "  Lay    of    the    Last  Minstrel." 
u  Faith,"  said  he  to  me,  "  it's  just  e'en  as  gude  a  thing  as  Mr. 
Scott  has  written — an'  if  he  were  stannin'  there  I'd  tell  him  so 
—an'  then  he'd  lauff." 

He  was  loud  in  his  praises  of  th  ^  af lability  of  Scott.  "  He'll 
come  here  sometimes,"  said  he,  "with  great  folks  in  his  com- 
pany, an'  the  first  I  know  of  it  is  his  voice,  calling  out 
•  Johnny ! — Johnny  Bower  1' — and  when  I  go  out,  I  am  sui 


10  ABB0TSF0RD. 

be  greeted  with  a  joke  or  a  pleasant  word.  He'll  stand  and  ; 
crack  and  lauff  wi'  me,  just  like  an  auld  wife — and  to  think  1 
that  of  a  man  who  has  such  an  awfu'  knowledge  o'  history  i" 

One  of  the  ingenious  devices  on  which  the  worthy  little  man  | 
prided  himself,  was  to  place  a  visitor  opposite  to  the  Abbey,  :| 
with  his  back  to  it,  and  bid  him  bend  down  and  look  at  it  be-  I 
tween  his  legs.  This,  he  said,  gave  an  entire  different  aspect  | 
to  the  ruin.  Folks  admired  the  plan  amazingly,  but  as  to  the  I 
"leddies,"  they  were  dainty  on  the  matter,  and  contented  1 
themselves  with  looking  from  under  their  arms. 

As  Johnny  Bower  piqued  himself  upon  showing  everything   I 
laid  down  in  the  poem,  there  was  one  passage  that  perplexed 
him  sadly.     It  was  the  opening  of  one  of  the  cantos : 

'If  thou  would'st  vif\v  fair  MelTOBe  aright, 
Go  visit  it  by  the  pale  moonlight; 
For  the  gay  beams  of  lightsome  day. 
Gild  but  to  flout  the  ruins  gray,"  etc. 

In  consequence  of  this  admonition,  many  of  the  most  devout  I 
pilgrims  to  the  ruin  could  not  be  contented  with  a  daylight  in-  * 
spection,  and  insisted  it  could  be  nothing  unless  seen  by  the 
light  of  the  moon.     Now,  unfortunately,  the  moon  shines  but 
for  a  part  of  the  month;  and,  what  is  still  more  unfortunate,  I 
is  very  apt  in  Scotland  to  be  obscured  by  clouds  and  mists.  I 
Johnny  was  sorely  puzzled,  therefore,  how  to  accommodate  his 
poetry-struck  visitors  with  this  indispensable  moonshine.     At 
length,  in  a  lucky  moment,  he  devised  a  substitute.     This  was 
a  great  double  tallow  candle  stuck  upon  the  end  of  a  pole,  with 
which  he  could  conduct  his  visitors  about  the  ruins  on  dark  I 
nights,  so  much  to  their  satisfaction  that,  at  length,  he  began 
to  think  it  even  preferable  to  the  moon  itself.     "It  does  na 
light  up  a'  the  Abbey  at  aince,  to  be  sure,"  he  would  say,  "but 
then  you  can  shift  it  about  and  show  the  auld  ruin  bit  by  bit, 
whiles  the  moon  only  shines  on  one  side." 

Honest  Johnny  Bower!  so  many  years  have  elapsed  since 
the  time  I  treat  of,  that  it  is  more  than  probable  his  simple 
head  lies  beneath  the  walls  of  his  favorite  Abbey.  It  is  to  be 
hoped  his  humble  ambition  has  been  gratified,  and  his  name 
recorded  by  the  pen  of  the  man  he  so  loved  and  honored. 


After  my  return  from  Melrose  Abbey,  Scott  proposed  a  ram- 
ble to  show  me  something  of  the  surrounding  country.  As  we 
sallied  forth,  every  dog  in  the  establishment  turned  out  to 


ABBOTSFORD.  \\ 


attend  us.  There  was  the  old  stag-hound  Maida,  that  I  have 
already  mentioned,  a  noble  animal,  and  a  great  favorite  of 
'  Scott's,  and  Hamlet,  the  black  greyhound,  a  wild,  thoughtless 
youngster,  not  yet  arrived  to  the  years  of  discretion;  and 
Finette.  a  beautiful  setter,  with  soft,  silken  hair,  long  pendent 
ears,  and  a  mild  eye,  the  parlor  favorite.  When  in  front  of  the 
house,  we  were  joined  by  a  superannuated  greyhound,  who 
came  from  the  kitchen  wagging  his  tail,  and  was  cheered  by 
Scott  as  an  old  friend  and  comrade. 

In  our  walks,  Scott  would  frequently  pause  in  conversation 
to  notice  his  dogs  and  speak  to  them,  as  if  rational  companions ; 
and  indeed  there  appears  to  be  a  vast  deal  of  rationality  in 
these  faithful  attendants  on  man,  derived  from  their  close  in- 
timacy with  him.  Maida  deported  himself  with  a  gravity 
becoming  his  age  and  size,  and  seemed  to  consider  himself 
called  upon  to  preserve  a  great  degree  of  dignity  and  decorum 
in  our  society.  As  he  jogged  along  a  little  distance  ahead  of 
us,  the  young  dogs  would  gambol  about  him,  leap  on  his  neck, 
worry  at  his  ears,  and  endeavor  to  tease  him  into  a  frolic.  The 
old  dog  would  keep  on  for  a  long  time  with  imperturbable 
solemnity,  now  and  then  seeming  to  rebuke  the  wantonness  of 
his  youn^,  companions.  At  length  he  would  make  a  sudden 
turn,  seize  one  of  them,  and  tumble  him  in  the  dust;  then 
giving  a  glance  at  us,  as  much  as  to  say,  "You  see,  gentlemen, 
I  can't  help  giving  way  to  this  nonsense,"  would  resume  his 
gravity  and  jog  on  as  before. 

Scott  amused  himself  with  these  peculiarities.  ' '  I  make  no 
doubt,"  said  he,  "when  Maida  is  alone  with  these  young  dogs, 
he  throws  gravity  aside,  and  plays  the  boy  as  much  as  any  of 
them ;  but  he  is  ashamed  to  do  so  in  our  company,  and  seems 
4/0  say,  '  Ha'  done  with  your  nonsense,  youngsters ;  what  will 
the  laird  and  that  other  gentleman  think  of  me  if  I  give  way 
to  such  foolery  :"" 

Maida  reminded  him,  he  said,  of  a  scene  on  board  an  armed 
facht  in  which  he  made  an  excursion  with  his  friend  Adam 
Jerguson.  They  had  taken  much  notice  of  the  boatswain, 
who  was  a  fine  sturdy  seaman,  and  evidently  felt  flattered  by 
their  attention.  On  one  occasion  the  crew  were  "piped  to 
fun."  and  the  sailors  were  dancing  and  cutting  all  kinds  of 
capers  to  the  music  of  the  ship's  band.  The  boatswain  looked 
on  with  a  wistful  eye,  as  if  he  would  like  to  join  in:  but  a 
glanee  at  Seott  and  Ferguson  showed  that  there  was  a  struggle 
with  his  dignity,  fearing  to  lessen  himself  in  their  eyes.     At 


12  -1  SBOTSPOBD. 

length  one  of  his  messmates  came  up,  and  seizing  him  by  the 
arm,  challenged  him  to  a  jig.  The  boatswain,  continued  Scott, 
after  a  little  hesitation  complied,  made  an  awkward  gambol  or 
like  our  friend  Maida,  but  soon  gave  it  up.  "It's  of  no 
use,"  said  he,  jerking  up  his  waistband  and  giving  a  side 
glance  at  us,  "one  can't  dance  always  nouther." 

Scott  amused  himself  with  the  peculiarities  of  another  of  his 
dogs,  a  little  shamefaced  terrier,  with  large  glassy  eyes,  one  o£ 
the  most  sensitive  little  bodies  to  insult  and  indignity  in  the 
world.  If  ever  he  whipped  him,  he  said,  the  little  fellow  would 
sneak  off  and  hide  himself  from  the  light  of  day,  in  a  lumber 
garretj  whence  there  was  no  drawing  him  forth  but  by  the 
sound  of  the  chopping-knife,  as  if  chopping  up  his  victuals, 
when  he  would  steal  forth  with  humble  and  downcast  look,  bat 
would  skulk  away  again  if  any  one  regarded  him. 

;ile  we  were  discussing  the  humors  and  peculiarities  of 
our  canine  companions,  some  object  provoked  their  spleen,  and 
produced  a  sharp  and  petulant  barking  from  the  smaller  fry, 
but  it  was  some  time  before  Maida  was  sufficiently  aroused  to 
ward  two  or  three  bounds  and  join  in  the  chorus. 
with  a  deep-mouthed  bow-wow! 

It  was  but  a  transient  outbreak,  and  he  returned  instantly,' 
;ing  his  tail,  and  looking  up  dubiously  in   his  master's 
face :  uncertain  whether  he  would  censure  or  applaud. 

"Aye,  aye,  old  boy !"  cried  Scott,  "you  have  done  wonders. 
You  have  shaken  the  Eildon  hills  with  your  roaring;  you  may 
lay  by  your  artillery  for  the  rest  of  the  day.  Maida  is 
J  ike  the  great  gun  at  Constantinople,"  continued  he;  "it  takes 
s  >  long  to  get  it  ready,  that  the  small  guns  can  fire  off  a  doze: 
times  first,  but  when  it  does  go  off  it  plays  the  very  d — 1. 

These  simple  anecdotes  may  serve  to  show  the  delightful  pla; 
of  Scott's  'humors  and  feelings  in  private  life.  His  domes 
animals  were  his  friends;  everything  about  him  seemed 
rejoice  in  the  light  of  his  countenance ;  the  face  of  the  humble 
dependent  brightened  at  his  approach,  as  if  he  anticipated  a  cor- 
dial and  cheering  word.  I  had  occasion  to  observe  this  par- 
ticularly in  a  visit  which  we  paid  to  a  quarry,  whence  several 
men  were  cutting  stone  for  the  new  edifice ;  who  all  paused 
from  their  labor  to  have  a  pleasant  "crack  wi'  the  laird."  One 
of  them  was  a  burgess  of  Selkirk,  with  whom  Scott  had  some 
joke  about  the  old  song: 

"  Up  with  the  Souters  o'  Selkirk. 
And  down  with  the  Earl  of  Home." 


ces 
;en 

?st     ; 


ABBGTSFQHD.  13 

Another  was  precentor  at  the  Kirk,  and,  besides  leading  the 
psalmody  on  Sunday,  taught  the  lads  and  lasses  of  the  neigh- 
borhood dancing  on  week  days,  in  the  winter  time,  when  out- 
of-door  labor  was  scar 

Among  the  rest  was  ;.  straight  old  fellow,  with  a  health- 

ful complexio  silver  hair,  and  a  small  round-crowned 

white  hat.     He  had  been  about  to  shoulder  a  hod,  but  pai 
and  stood  looking  at  Scott,  with  a  slight  sparkling  of  his  bl 
eye,  as  if  waiting  his  turn ;  for  the  old  fellow  knew  himself  to 
be  a  favorite. 

Scott  accosted  him  in  an  affable  tone,  and  asked  for  a  pinch 
of  snuff.  The  old  man  drew  forth  a  horn  snuff-box.  "Hoot, 
man,"  said  Scott,  "not  that  old  mull:  where 's  the  bonnie 
French  one  that  I  brought  you  from  Paris?"  "Troth,  your 
honor,"  replied  the  old  fellow,  "sic  a  mull  as  that  is  nae  for 
week-days. " 

On  leaving  the  quarry,  Scott  informed  me  that  when  absent 
at  Paris,  he  had  purchased  several  trifling  articles  as  presents 
for  his  dependents,  and  among  others  the  gay  snuff-box  in 
question,  which  was  so  carefully  reserved  for  Sundays,  by  the 
veteran.  ' '  It  was  not  so  much  the  value  of  the  gifts, "  said  he, 
r  that  pleased  them,  as  the  idea  that  the  laird  should  think  of 
them  when  so  far  away." 

The  old  man  in  question,  I  found,  was  a  great  favorite  with 
Scott.  If  I  recollect  right,  he  had  been  a  soldier  in  early  life, 
and  his  straight,  erect  person,  his  ruddy  yet  rugged  counte- 
nance, his  gray  hair,  and  an  arch  gleam  in  his  blue  eye,  reminded 
me  of  the  description  of  Edie  Ochiltree.  I  find  that  the  old 
fellow  has  since  been  introduced  by  Wilkie,  in  his  picture  of  the 
Scott  family. 


We  rambled  on  among  scenes  which  had  been  familiar  in 
Scottish  song,  and  rendered  classic  by  pastoral  muse,  long 
before  Scott  had  thrown  the  rich  mantle  of  his  poetry  over 
them.  What  a  thrill  of  pleasure  did  I  feel  when  first  I  saw  the 
broom-covered  tops  of  the  Cowden  Knowes,  peeping  above  the 
gray  hills  of  the  Tweed :  and  what  touching  associations  were 
called  up  by  the  sight  of  Ettrick  Vale.  Galla  Water,  and  the 
Braes  of  Yarrow !  Every  turn  brought  to  mind  some  house- 
hold air — some  almost  forgotten  song  of  the  nursery,  by  which 
I  had  been  lulled  to  sleep  in  my  childhood ;  and  with  them  the 
looks  and  voices  of  those  who  had  sung  them,  and  who  were 


14  ABBOTSFORD. 

now  no  more.  It  is  these  melodies,  chanted  in  our  ears  in  the 
days  of  infancy,  and  connected  with  the  memory  of  those  we 
have  loved,  and  who  have  passed  away,  that  clothe  Scot- 
tish landscape  with  such  tender  associations.  The  Scottish 
songs,  in  general,  have  something  intrinsically  melancholy  in 
them;  owing,  in  all  probability,  to  the  pastoral  and  lonely  life 
of  those  who  composed  them ;  who  were  often  mere  shepherds, 
tending  their  flocks  in  the  solitary  glens,  or  folding  them  among 
the  naked  hills.  Many  of  these  rustic  bards  have  passed  away, 
without  leaving  a  name  behind  them;  nothing  remains  of  them 
but  their  sweet  and  touching  songs,  which  live,  like  echoes, 
about  the  places  they  once  inhabited.  Most  of  these  simple 
effusions  of  pastoral  poets  are  linked  with  some  favorite  haunt 
of  the  poet ;  and  in  this  way,  not  a  mountain  or  valley,  a  town 
or  tower,  green  shaw  or  running  stream,  in  Scotland,  but  has 
some  popular  air  connected  with  it,  that  makes  its  very  name 
a  key-note  to  a  whole  train  of  delicious  fancies  and  feelings. 

Let  me  step  forward  in  time,  and  mention  how  sensible  I  was 
to  the  power  of  these  simple  airs,  in  a  visit  which  I  made  to 
Ayr,  the  birthplace  of  Robert  Burns.  I  passed  a  whole  morn- 
ing about  "  the  banks  and  braes  of  bonnie  Doon,"  with  his  ten- 
der little  love  verses  running  in  my  head.  I  found  a  poor 
Scotch  carpenter  at  work  among  the  ruins  of  Kirk  Alloway, 
which  was  to  be  converted  into  a  school-house.  Finding  the 
purpose  of  my  visit,  he  left  his  work,  sat  down  with  me  on  a 
grassy  grave,  close  by  wjiere  Burns'  father  was  buried,  and 
talked  of  the  poet,  whom  he  had  known  personally.  He  said 
his  songs  were  familiar  to  the  poorest  and  most  illiterate  or*  the 
country  folk,  "and  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  the  country  had 
grown  more  beautiful,  since  Burns  had  written  his  bonnie  little 
songs  about  it." 

I  found  Scott  was  quite  an  enthusiast  on  the  subject  of  the 
popular  songs  of  his  country,  and  he  seemed  gratified  to  find 
me  so  alive  to  them.  Their  effect  in  calling  up  in  my  mind  the 
recollections  of  early  times  and  scenes  in  which  I  had  first 
heard  them,  reminded  him,  he  said,  of  the  lines  of  his  poor 
•id,  Ley  den,  to  the  Scottish  muse: 


In  youth's  first  morn,  alert  and  gay, 
Ere  rolling  years  had  passed  away, 

Remembered  like  a  morning  dream, 
I  heard  the  dulcet  measures  float, 
In  many  a  liquid  winding  note, 

Along  the  bank  of  Teviot.'s  stream. 


ABB0T8FQRD.  15 

"  Sweet  sounds!  that  oft  have  soothed  to  rest 
The  sorrows  of  my  guileless  breast, 

And  charmed  away  mine  iufant  tears; 
Fond  memory  shall  your  strains  repeat, 
Like  distant  echoes,  doubly  sweet, 

That  on  the  wild  the  traveller  hears." 

Scott  went  on  to  expatiate  on  the  popular  songs  of  Scot 
land.  "  They  are  a  part  of  our  national  inheritance,"  said  he, 
•'and  something  that  we  may  truly  call  our  own.  They  have 
no  foreign  taint ;  they  have  the  pure  breath  of  the  heather  and 
the  mountain  breeze.  All  genuine  legitimate  races  that  have 
descended  from  the  ancient  Britons;  such  as  the  Scotch,  the 
Welsh,  and  the  Irish,  have  national  airs.  The  English  have 
none,  because  they  are  not  natives  of  the  soil,  or,  at  least,  are 
mongrels.  Their  music  is  all  made  up  of  foreign  scraps,  like  a 
harlequin  jacket,  or  a  piece  of  mosaic.  Even  in  Scotland,  we 
have  comparatively  few  national  songs  in  the  eastern  part, 
where  we  have  had  most  influx  of  strangers.  A  real  old 
Scottish  song  is  a  cairngorm — a  gem  of  our  own  mountains ;  or 
rather,  it  is  a  precious  relic  of  old  times,  that  bears  the  national 
character  stamped  upon  it — like  a  cameo,  that  shows  what 
the  national  visage  was  in  former  days,  before  the  breed  was 
crossed." 

While  Scott  was  thus  discoursing,  we  were  passing  up  a 
narrow  glen,  with  the  dogs  beating  about,  to  right  and  left, 
when  suddenly  a  blackcock  burst  upon  the  wing. 

"Aha!"  cried  Scott,  "there  will  be  a  good  shot  for  Master 
Walter ;  we  must  send  him  this  way  with  his  gun,  when  we  go 
home.  Walter's  the  family  sportsman  now,  and  keeps  us  in 
game.  I  have  pretty  nigh  resigned  my  gun  to  him ;  for  I  find 
I  cannot  trudge  about  as  briskly  as  formerly." 

Our  ramble  took  us  on  the  lulls  commanding  an  extensive 
prospect.  "Now,"  said  Scott,  "I  have  brought  you,  like  the 
pilgrim  in  the  Pilgrim's  Progress,  to  the  top  of  the  Delectable 
Mountains,  that  I  may  show  you  all  the  goodly  regions  here- 
abouts. Yonder  is  Lammermuir,  and  Smalholme;  and  there 
you  have  Gallashiels,  and  Torwoodlie,  and  Galla water;  and  in 
mat  direction  you  see  Teviotdale,  and  the  Braes  of  Yarrow; 
Hid  Ettrick  stream,  winding  along,  like  a  silver  thread,  to 
throw  itself  into  the  Tweed." 

He  went  on  thus  to  call  over  nnmos  celebrated  in  Scottish 
song,  and  most  of  which  had  recently  received  a  romantic  in- 
terest from  his  own  pen.  In  fact,  I  saw  a  great  part  of  the 
border  country  spread  out  before  me,  and  could  trace  the 


16  ABB0T8F0RD. 

scenes  of  those  poems  and  romances  which  had,  in  a  manner, 
bewitched  the  world.  I  gazed  about  me  for  a  time  with  mute 
surprise,  I  may  almost  say  with  disappointment.  I  beheld  a 
mere  succession  of  gray  waving  hills,  line  beyond  line,  as  far 
as  my  eye  could  reach;  monotonous  in  their  aspect,  and  so 
destitute  of  trees,  that  one  could  almost  see  a  stout  fly  walking 
along  their  profile ;  and  the  far-famed  Tweed  appeared  a  naked 
stream,  flowing  between  bare  hills,  without  a  tree  or  thicket  on 
its  banks ;  and  yet,  such  had  been  the  magic  web  of  poetry  and 
romance  thrown  over  the  whole,  that  it  had  a  greater  charm 
for  me  than  the  richest  scenery  I  beheld  in  England. 

I  could  not  help  giving  utterance  to  my  thoughts.     Scott 
hummed  for  a  moment  to  himself,  and  looked  grave ;  he  had  no 
idea  of  having  his  muse  complimented  at  the  expense  of  his 
native  hills.     "It  may  be  partiality, v  said  he,  at  length;  "but 
to  my  eye,  these  gray  hills  and  all  this  wild  border  counti 
have  beauties  peculiar  to  themselves.     I  like  the  very  naked- 
ness of  the  land ;  it  has  something  bold,  and  stern,  and  solitary 
about  it.    When  I  have  been  for  some  time  in  the  rich  scenei 
about  Edinburgh,  which  is  like  ornamented  garden  land,  I  be 
gin  to  wish  myself  back  again  among  my  own  honest  grai 
hills ;  and  if  I  did  not  see  the  heather  at  least  once  a  year, 
think  I  should  die!" 

The  last  words  were  said  with  an  honest  warmth,  accom- 
panied with  a  thump  on  the  ground  with  his  staff,  by  way  of 
emphasis,  that  showed  his  heart  was  in  his  speech.  He  vindi- 
cated the  Tweed,  too,  as  a  beautiful  stream  in  itself,  and  ol 
served  that  he  did  not  dislike  it  for  being  bare  of  trees,  prob- 
ably from  having  been  much  of  an  angler  in  his  time,  and 
angler  does  not  like  to  have  a  stream  overhung  by  trees,  whicl 
embarrass  him  in  the  exercise  of  his  rod  and  line. 

I  took  occasion  to  plead,  in  like  manner,  the  associations  of 
early  life,  for  my  disappointment  in  respect  to  the  surrounding 
scenery.    I  had  been  so  accustomed  to  hills  crowned  with  for 
ests,  and  streams  breaking  their  way  through  a  wilderness  oi 
trees,  that  all  my  ideas  of  romantic  landscape  were  apt  to 
well  wooded, 

"Aye,  and  that's  the  great  charm  of  your  country,"  crie 
Scott.  ' '  You  love  the  forest  as  I  do  the  heather — but  I  woulc 
not  have  you  think  I  do  not  feel  the  glory  of  a  great  woodlanc 
prospect.  There  is  nothing  I  should  like  more  than  to  be  in  the 
midst  of  one  of  your  grand,  wild,  original  forests  with  the  id€ 
of  hundreds  of  miles  of  untrodden  forest  around  me.     I  once 


ABB0T8F0MD.  17 

ail  immense  slick  of  timber,  just  landed  from 
merica.  It  must  have  been  an  enormous  .tree  when  it  stood 
on  its  native  soil,  at  its. full  height,  and  with  all  its  branches. 
I  gazed  at  it  with  admiration ;  it  seemed  like  one  of  the  gigantic 
obelisks  which  are  now  and  then  brought  from  Egypt,  to  shame 
the  pigmy  monuments  of  Europe;  and,  in  fact,  these  vast 
aboriginal  trees,  that  have  sheltered  the  Indians  before  the  in- 
trusion of  the  white  men,  are  the  monuments  and  antiquities  of 
your  country. ' 

The  conversation  here  turned  upon  Campbell's  poem  of 
"Gertrude  of  Wyoming,"  as  illustrative  of  the  poetic  materials 
furnished  by  American  scenery.  Scott  spoke  of  it  in  that  lib- 
eral  style  in  which  I  always  found  him  to  speak  of  the  writings 
of  his  contemporaries.  He  cited  several  passages  of  it  with 
great  delight.  ' '  What  a  pity  it  is, "  said  he,  ' '  that  Campbell 
does  not  write  more  and  oftener,  and  give  full  sweep  to  his 
genius.  He  has  wings  that  would  bear  him  to  the  skies ;  and 
he  does  now  and  then  spread  them  grandly,  but  folds  them  up 
again  and  resumes  his  perch,  as  if  he  was  afraid  to  launch 
away.  He  don't  know  or  won't  trust  his  own  strength.  Even 
when  he  has  done  a  thing  well,  he  has  often  misgivings  about 
it.  He  left  out  several  fine  passages  of  his  Lochiel,  but  I  got 
him  to  restore  some  of  them."  Here  Scott  repeated  several 
passages  in  a  magnificent  style.  'What  a  grand  idea  is 
that.''  said  he,  "about  prophetic  boding,  or,  in  common  par- 
lance, second  sight — 

'  Coming  events  cast  their  shadows  before.' 

It  is  a  noble  thought,  and  nobly  expressed.  And  there's  that 
glorious  little  poem,  too,  of  '  Hohenlinden ;'  after  he  had  written 
it,  he  did  not  seem  to  think  much  of  it,  but  considered  some  of 

it  'd d  drum  and  trumpet  lines.'    I  got  him  to  recite  it  to 

me,  and  I  believe  that  the  delight  J.  felt  and  expressed  had  an 
effect  in  inducing  him  to  print  it.  The  fact  is,"  added  he, 
"Campbell  is.  in  a  manner,  a  bugbear  to  himself.  The  bright- 
ness of  his  early  success  is  a  detriment  to  all  his  further  efforts. 
He  is  afraid  of  the  shadow  that  his  own  fame  casts  before  him." 
While  we  were  thus  chatting,  we  heard  the  report  of  a  gun 
among  the  hills.  "That's  Walter,  I  think,"  said  Scott;  "he 
has  finished  his  morning's  studies,  and  is  out  with  his  gun.  I 
should  not  be  surprised  if  he  had  met  with  the  blackcock ;  if 
so,  we  shall  have  an  addition  to  our  larder,  for  Walter  is  a 
pretty  sure  shot." 


18  ABBOTSFOJW. 

I  inquired  into  the  nature  of  Walter's  studies.  " Faith,"  said' 
Scott,  "I  can't  say  much  on  that  head.  I  am  not  over  bent 
upon  making  prodigies  of  any  of  my  children.  As  to  Walter, 
I  taught  him,  while  a  boy,  to  ride,  and  shoot,  and  speak  the! 
truth ;  as  to  the  other  parts  of  his  education,  I  leave  them  to  a 
very  worthy  young  man,  the  son  of  one  of  our  clergymen,  who* 
instructs  all  my  children. '' 

I  afterward  became  acquainted  with  the  young  man  in  ques- 
tion, George  Thomson,  son  of  the  minister  of  Melrose,  and 
found  him  possessed  of  much  learning,  intelligence,  and  modest  \ 
worth.  He  used  to  come  every  day  from  his  father's  residence- 
at  Melrose  to  superintend  the  studies  of  the  young  folks,  andj 
occasionally  took  his  meals  at  Abbotsford,  where  he  was  highly:; 
esteemed.  Nature  had  cut  him  out,  Scott  used  to  say,  for  a 
stalwart  soldier,  for  he  was  tall,  vigorous,  active,  and  fond  of 
athletic  exercises,  but  accident  had  marred  her  work,  the  loss 
of  a  limb  in  boyhood  having  reduced  him  to  a  wooden  leg.  He' 
was  brought  up,  therefore,  for  the  Church,  whence  he  wasi 
occasionally  called  the  Dominie,  and  is  supposed,  by  his  mix- 
ture of  learning,  simplicity,  and  amiable  eccentricity,  to  have 
furnished  many  traits  for  the  character  of  Dominie  Sampson. 
I  believe  he  often  acted  as  Scott's  amanuensis,  when  composing, 
his  novels.  With  him  the  young  people  were  occupied  in 
general  during  the  early  part  of  the  day,  after  which  they  took 
all  kinds  of  healthful  recreations  in  the  open  air;  for  Scott  was 
as  solicitous  to  strengthen  their  bodies  as  their  minds. 

We  had  not  walked  much  further  before  we  saw  the  two 
Miss  Scotts  advancing  along  the  hillside  to  meet  us.  The 
morning  studies  being  over,  they  had  set  off  to  take  a  ramble 
on  the  hills,  and  gather  heather  blossoms,  with  which  to 
i  decorate  their  hair  for  dinner.  As  they  came  bounding  lightly 
"like  young  fawns,  and  their  dresses  fluttering  in  the  pure  sum- 
mer breeze,  I  was  reminded  of  Scott's  own  description  of  his 
children  in  his  introduction  to  one  of  the  cantos  of  Marmion— 

"  My  imps,  though  hardy,  bold,  and  wild, 
As  best  befits  the  mountain  child, 
Their  summer  gambols  tell  and  mourn, 
And  anxious  ask  will  spring  return, 
And  birds  and  lambs  again  be  gay, 
And  blossoms  clothe  the  hawthorn  spray? 

"  Yes,  prattlers,  yes,  the  daisy's  flower 
Again  shall  paint  your  summer  bower; 
Again  the  hawthorn  shall  supply 
The  garlands  you  delight  to  tie; 


ABBOTSFORD.  19 

The  lambs  upon  the  lea  shall  bound, 
The  wild  birds  carol  to  the  round, 
And  while  you  frolic  light  as  they, 
Too  short  shall  seem  the  summer  day." 

As  they  approached,  the  dogs  all  sprang  forward  and  gam- 
bolled around  them.  They  played  with  them  for  a  time,  and 
then  joined  us  with  countenances  full  of  health  and  glee. 
Sophia,  the  eldest,  was  the  most  lively  and  joyous,  having 
much  of  her  father's  varied  spirit  in  conversation,  and  seem- 
ing to  catch  excitement  from  his  words  and  looks.  Ann  was 
of  quieter  mood,  rather  silent,  owing,  in  some  measure,  no 
doubt,  to  her  being  some  years  younger. 


At  dinner  Scott  had  laid  by  his  half -rustic  dress,  and  ap- 
peared clad  in  black.  The  girls,  too,  in  completing  their  toilet, 
had  twisted  in  their  hair  the  sprigs  of  purple  heather  which 
they  had  gathered  on  the  hillside,  and  looked  all  fresh  and 
blooming  from  their  breezy  walk. 

There  was  no  guest  at  dinner  but  myself.  Around  the  table 
were  two  or  three  dogs  in  attendance.  Maida,  the  old  stag- 
hound,  took  his  seat  at  Scott's  elbow,  looking  up  wistfully  in 
his  master's  eye,  while  Finette,  the  pet  spaniel,  placed  herself 
near  Mrs.  Scott,  by  whom,  i  soon  perceived,  she  was  com- 
pletely spoiled. 

The  conversation  happening  to  turn  on  the  merits  of  his  dogs, 
Scott  spoke  with  great  feeling  and  affection  of  his  favorite, 
Camp,  who  is  depicted  by  his  side  in  the  earlier  engravings  of 
him.  He  talked  of  him  as  of  a  real  friend  whom  he  had  lost, 
and  Sophia  Scott,  looking  up  archly  in  his  face,  observed  that 
Papa  shed  a  few  tears  when  poor  Camp  died.  I  may  here 
mention  another  testimonial  of  Scott's  fondness  for  his  dogs, 
and  his  humorous  mode  of  showing  it,  which  I  subsequently 
met  with.  Eambling  with  him  one  morning  about  the  grounds 
adjacent  to  the  house,  I  observed  a  small  antique  monument, 
on  which  was  inscribed,  in  Gothic  characters — 

"  Cy  git  le  preux  Percy." 
(Here  lies  the  brave  Percy.) 

I  paused,  supposing  it  to  be  the  tomb  of  some  stark  warrior  of 
the  olden  time,  but  Scott  drew  me  on.  "Pooh !"  cried  he,  "it's 
nothing  but  one  of  the  monuments  of  my  nonsense,  of  which 
you'll  find  enough  hereabouts. "  I  learnt  afterward  that  it  was 
the  grave  of  a  favorite  greyhound. 


20  ABB0T>l'VRD. 

Among  the  otl  er  important  and  privileged  members  of  the 
household  who  figured  in  attendance  at  the  dinner,  was  a  large 
gray  cat,  who,  I  observed,  was  regaled  from  time  to  time  with 
titbits  from  the  table.  Tins  sage  grimalkin  was  a  favorite  of 
both  master  and  mistress,  and  slept  at  night  in  their  room ;  and 
Scott  laughingly  observed,  that  one  of  the  least  wise  parts  of 
their  establishment  was,  that  the  window  was  left  open  at 
night  for  puss  to  go  in  and  out.  The  eat  assumed  a  kind  of 
ascendancy  among  the  quadrupeds— sitting  in  state  in  Scott's 
arm-chair,  and  occasionally  stationing  himself  on  a  chair  beside 
the  door,  as  if  to  re^ew  his  subjects  as  they  passed,  giving 
each  dog  a  cuff  beside  the  ears  as  he  went  by.  This  clapper- 
clawing was  always  taken  in  good  part;  it  appeared  to  be,  in 
fact,  a  mere  act  of  sovereignty  on  the  part  of  grimalkin,  to 
remind  the  others  of  their  vassalage ;  which  they  acknowledged 
by  the  most  perfect  acquiescence.  A  general  harmony  pre- 
vailed between  sovereign  and  subjects,  and  they  would  all 
sleep  together  in  the  sunshine, 

Scott  was  full  of  anecdote  and  conversation  during  dinner. 
He  made  some  admirable  remarks  upon  the  Scottish  character, 
and  spoke  strongly  in  praise  of  the  quiet,  orderly,  honest  1 
conduct  of  his  neighbors,  which  one  would  hardly  expect,  said 
he,  from  the  descendants  of  moss  troopers,  and  borderers,  in  a 
neighborhood  famed  in  old  times  for  brawl  and  feud,  andi 
violence  of  all  kinds.  He  said  he  had,  in  his  official  capacity 
of  sheriff,  administered  the  laws  for  a  number  of  years,  during 
which  there  had  been  very  few  trials.  The  old  feuds  and  loc 
interests,  and  rivalries,  and  animosities  of  the  Scotch,  however, 
still  slept,  he  said,  in  their  ashes,  and  might  easily  be  roused, 
Their  hereditary  feeling  for  names  was  still  great.  It  was  no 
always  safe  to  have  even  the  game  of  foot-ball  between  village 
the  old  clannish  spirit  was  too  apt  to  break  out.  The  Scotch 
he  said,  were  more  revengeful  than  the  English ;  they  carried 
their  resentments  longer,  and  would  sometimes  lay  them  by 
for  years,  but  would  be  sure  to  gratify  them  in  the  end. 

The  ancient  jealousy  between  the  Highlanders  and  the  Low- 
landers  still  continued  to  a  certain  degree,  the  former  looking 
upon  the  latter  as  an  inferior  race,  less  brave  and  hardy,  but  at 
the  same  time,  suspecting  them  of  a  disposition  to  take  airs 
upon  themselves  under  the  idea  of  superior  refinement.  This 
made  them  techy  and  ticklish  company  for  a  stranger  on, 
his  first  coming  among  them;  ruffling  up  and  putting  them-. 
s elves  upon  their  mettle  on  the  slightest  occasion,  so  th 


; 

h 


ABBOTSFORD,  21 

had  in  a  manner  to  quarrel  and  fight  his  way  into  their  good 

graces. 

He  instanced  a  case  in  point  in  a  brother  of  Mungo  Park, 
who  went  to  take  up  his  residence  .in  a  wild  neighborhood  of 
the  Highlands.  He  soon  found  himself  considered  as  an  intru- 
der, and  that  there  was  a  disposition  among  these  cocks  of  the 
hills,  to  fix  a  quarrel  on  him,  trusting  that,  being  a  Lowlander, 
he  would  show  the  white  feather. 

For  a  time  he  bore  their  flings  and  taunts  with  great  coolness/ 
jmtil  one,  presuming  on  his  forbearance,  drew  forth  a  dirk,  and 
holding  it  before  him,  asked  him  if  he  had  ever  seen  a  weapon 
like  that  in  his  part  of  the  country.  Park,  who  was  a  Hercules 
in  frame,  seized  the  dirk,  and,  with  one  blow,  drove  it  through 
an  oaken  table :— -"  Yes/'  replied  he,  "  and  tell  your  friends  that 
a  man  from  the  Lowlands  drove  it  where  the  devil  himself  can- 
not draw  it  out  again."  All  persons  were  delighted  with  the 
feat,  and  the  words  that  accompanied  it.  They  drank  with 
Park  to  a  better  acquaintance,  and  were  staunch  friends  ever 
afterwards. 


After  dinner  we  adjourned  to  the  drawing-room,  which  served 
also  for  study  and  library.  Against  the  wall  on  one  side  was  a 
long  writing-table,  with  drawers;  surmounted  by  a  small 
cabinet  of  polished  wood,  with  folding  doors  richly  studded 
with  brass  ornaments,  within  which  Scott  kept  his  most  valu- 
able papers.  Above  the  cabinet,  in  a  kind  of  niche,  was  a 
complete  corslet  of  glittering  steel,  with  a  closed  helmet,  and 
flanked  by  gauntlets  and  battle-axes.  Around  were  hung 
trophies  and  relics  of  various  kinds:  a  cimeter  of  Tippoo  Saib; 
a  Highland  broadsword  from  Flodden  Field  ;  a  pair  of  Rippon 
spurs  from  Bannockburn ;  and  above  all,  a  gun  which  had  be- 
longed to  Rob  Roy,  and  bore  his  initials.  R.  M.  G.,  an  object  of 
peculiar  interest  to  me  at  the  time,  as  it  was  understood  Scott 
was  actually  engaged  in  printing  a  novel  founded  on  the  story 
of  that  famous  outlaw. 

On  each  side  of  the  cabinet  were  book-cases,  well  stored  with 
works  of  romantic  fiction  in  various  languages,  many  of  them 
rare  and  antiquated.  This,  however,  was  merely  his  cottage 
library,  the  principal  part  of  his  books  being  at  Edinburgh. 

From  this  little   cabinet   of  cott   drew  forth  a 

manuscript  lacked  up  on  the  field  of  Waterloo,  containing 
copies  of  several  songs  popular  at  the   tunc  m    BYance,     The 


22  ABBOTSFORD. 

paper  was  dabbled  with  blood—"  the  very  life-blood,  very  possi-  i 
bly,"  said  Scott,  "  of  some  gay  young  officer,  who  had  cherished  \ 
these  songs  as  a  keepsake  from  some  lady-love  in  Paris. " 

He  adverted,  in  a  mellow  and  delightful  manner,  to  the  little  -J 
half-gay,  half-melancholy,  campaigning  song,  said  to  have  been 
composed  by  General  Wolfe,  and  sung  by  him  at  the  mess  I 
table,  on  the  eve  of  the  storming  of  Quebec,  in  which  he  fell  so  J 
gloriously : 

'•  Why,  soldiers,  why, 
Should  we  be  melancholy,  boys? 
Why.  soldiers,  why, 
Whose  business  'tis  to  die! 
For  should  next  campaign 
Send  us  to  him  who  made  us,  boys 
We're  free  from  pain: 
But  should  we  remain, 
A  bottle  and  kind  landlady 
Makes  all  well  again.1' 

"So."  added  he,  "the  poor  lad  who  fell  at  Waterloo,  in  al 
probability,  bad  been  singing  these  songs  in  his  tent  the  night  h 
before  the  battle,   and  thinking  of  the  fair  dame  who  had  ? 
taught  him  them,   and  promising  himself,  should  he  outlive  J 
the  campaign,  to  return  to  her  all  glorious  from  the  wars." 

I  find  since  that  Scott  published  translations  of  these  songs  | 
among  some  of  his  smaller  poems. 

The  evening  passed  away  delightfully  in  this  quaint-looking  fl 
apartment,  half  study,  half  drawing-room.     Scott  read  several  S 
passages  from  the  old  romance  of  "Arthur,"  with  a  fine,  deep  1 
sonorous  voice,  and  a  gravity  of  tone  that  seemed  to  suit  the  B 
antiquated,  black-letter  volume.     It  was  a  rich  treat  to  hear  | 
such  a  work,  read  by  such  a  person,  and  in  such  a  place ;  and  3 
his  appearance  as  he  sat  reading,  in  a  large  armed  chair,  with  his 
favorite  hound  Maida  at  his  feet,  and  surrounded  by  books  and 
relics,  and  border  trophies,  would  have  formed  an  admirable 
and  most  characteristic  picture. 

While  Scott  was  reading,  the  sage  grimalkin,  already  men- 1 
tioned,  had  taken  his  seat  in  a  chair  beside  the  fire,  and  re- 
mained with  fixed  eye  and  grave  demeanor,  as  if  listening  to  I 
the  reader.     I  observed  to  Scott  that  his  cat  seemed  to  have  a  I 
black-letter  taste  in  literature. 

"Ah,"  said  he,  "these  cats  are  a  very  mysterious  kind  of  | 
folk.     There  is  always  more  passing  in  their  minds  than  we  are  & 
aware  of.    It  comes  no  doubt  from  their  being  so  familiar  with 
witches  and  warlocks."    He  went  on  to  tell  a  little  story  about 


ABB0T8F0RD.  gg 

n  gude  man  who  was  returning  to  his  cottage  one  night,  when, 
in  a  lonely  out-of-the-way  place,  he  met  with  a  funeral  proces- 
sion of  cats  all  in  mourning,  bearing  one  of  their  race  to  the 
grave  in  a  coffin  covered  with  a  black  velvet  pall.  The  worthy 
man,  astonished  and  half-frightened  at  so  strange  a  pageant, 
hastened  home  and  told  what  he  had  seen  to  his  wife  and  chil- 
dren. Scarce  had  he  finished,  when  a  great  black  cat  that  sat 
beside  the  fire  raised  himself  up,  exclaimed  "Then  I  am -king 
of  the  cats!"  and  vanished  up  the  chimney.  The  funeral  seen 
by  the  gude  man,  was  one  of  the  cat  dynasty. 

"  Our  grimalkin  here,"  added  Scott,  "sometimes  reminds  me 
of  the  story,  by  the  airs  of  sovereignty  which  he  assumes ;  and 
I  am  apt  to  treat  him  with  respect  from  the  idea  that  he  may 
be  a  great  prince  incog. ,  and  may  some  time  or  other  come  to 
the  throne." 

In  this  way  Scott  would  make  the  habits  and  peculiarities  of 
even  the  dumb  animals  about  him  subjects  for  humorous  re- 
mark or  whimsical  story. 

Our  evening  was  enlivened  also  by  an  occasional  song  from 
Sophia  Scott,  at  the  request  of  her  father.  She  never  wanted 
to  be  asked  twice,  but  complied  frankly  and  cheerfully.  Her 
songs  were  all  Scotch,  sung  without  any  accompaniment,  in  a 
simple  manner,  but  with  great  spirit  and  expression,  and  in 
their  native  dialects,  which  gave  them  an  additional  charm. 
It  was  delightful  to  hear  her  carol  off  in  sprightly  style,  and 
with  an  animated  air,  some  of  those  generous-spirited  old 
Jacobite  songs,  once  current  among  the  adherents  of  the  Pre- 
tender in  Scotland,  in  which  he  is  designated  by  the  appellation 
of  '•  The  Young  Chevalier." 

These  songs  were  much  relished  by  Scott,  notwithstanding 
his  loyalty;  for  the  unfortunate  "  Chevalier"  has  always  been 
?.  hero  of  romance  with  him,  as  he  has  with  many  other 
staunch  adherents  to  the  House  of  Hanover,  now  that  the 
Stuart  line  has  lost  all  its  terrors.  In  speaking  on  the  subject, 
Scott  mentioned  as  a  curious  fact,  that,  among  the  papers  of 
the  "*  Chevalier,,;  which  had  been  submitted  by  government  to 
Ins  inspection,  he  had  found  a  memorial  to  Charles  from  some 
adherents  in  America,  dated  1778,  proposing  to  set  up  his  stan- 
dard in  the  back  settlements.  I  regret  that,  at  the  time,  I  did 
not  make  more  particular  inquiries  of  Scott  on  the  subject ;  the 
document  in  question,  however,  in  all  probability,  still  exists 
among  the  Pretender's  papers,  which  are  in  the  possession  of 
the  British  Government. 


-J4  MmorsFoni) 

h\  the  course  of  the  evening,  Scott  related  the  story  oi  a  whim- 
sical picture  hanging  in  the  a  torn,  which  had  been  drawn  for  him 
by  a  lady  of  his  acquaintance.  It  represented  the  doleful  per- 
plexity of  a  wealthy  and  handsome  young  English  knight  of 
the  olden  time,  who,  in  the  course  of  a  border  foray,  had  been 
captured  and  carried  off  to  the  castle  of  a  hard-headed  and 
high-handed  old  baron.  The  unfortunate  youth  was  thrown 
into  a  dungeon,  and  n  tall  gallows  erected  before  the  castle 
gate  for  his  execution.  When  all  was  ready,  he  was  brought 
into  the  castle  hall  where  the  grim  baron  was  seated  in 
state,  witli  his  warriors  armed  to  the  teeth  around  him,  and 
given  his  choice,  either  to  swing  on  the  gibbet  or  to  marry 
the  baron's  daughter.  The  last  may  be  thought  an  easy  alterna- 
tive, but  unfortunately,  the  baron's  young  lady  was  hideously 
ugly,  with  a  mouth  from  ear  to  ear,  so  that  not  a  suitor  was  to 
be  had  for  her.  either  for  love  or  money,  and  she  was  known 
throughout  the  border  country  by  the  name  of  Muckle-mouthed 
Mag! 

The  picture  in  question  represented  the  unhappy  dilemma  of 
the  handsome  youth.  Before  him  sat  the  grim  baron,  with  a 
face  worthy  of  the  father  of  such  a  daughter,  and  looking  dag- 
gers and  ratsbane.  On  one  side  of  him  was  Muckle-mouthed 
Mag,  with  an  amorous  smile  across  the  whole  breadth  of  her 
countenance,  and  a  leer  enough  to  turn  a  man  to  stone ;  on  the 
other  side  was  the  father  confessor,  a  sleek  friar,  jogging  the 
youth's  elbow,  and  pointing  to  the  gallows,  seen  in  perspective 
through  the  open  portal. 

The  story  goes,  that  after  long  laboring  in  mind,  between  the 
altar  and  the  halter,  the  love  of  life  prevailed,  and  the  youth 
resigned  himself  to  the  charms  of  Muckle-mouthed  Mag.  Con- 
trary to  all  the  probabilities  of  romance,  the  match  proved  a 
happy  one.  The  baron's  daughter,  if  not  beautiful,  was  a  most 
exemplary  wife ;  her  husband  was  never  troubled  with  any  of 
those  doubts  and  jealousies  which  sometimes  mar  the  hap- 
piness of  connubial  life,  and  was  made  the  father  of  a  fair 
and  undoubtedly  legitimate  line,  which  still  flourishes  on  the 
border. 

I  give  but  a  faint  outline  of  the  story  from  vague  recollection ; 
it  may,  perchance,  be  more,  richly  related  elsewhere,  by  some 
one  who  may  retain  something  of  the  delightful  humor  with 
which  Scott  recounted  it. 

When  I  retired  for  the  night,  I  found  it  almost  impossible  to 
sleep ;  the  idea  of  being  under  the  roof  of  Scott ;  of  being  on  the 


ABBOTSFORD  25 

borders  of  the  Tweed,  in  Tie  very  centre  of  that  region  which 
had  for  some  time  past  been  the  favorite  scene  of  romantic 
fiction;  and  above  a3J,  the  recollections  of  the  ramble  I  had 
taken,  the  company  in  which  I  had  taken  it,  and  the  conversa- 
tion which  had  passed,  all  fermented  in  my  mind,  and  nearly 
drove  sleep  from  my  pillow. 


On  the  following  morning,  the  sun  darted  his  beams  from 
over  the  hills  through  the  low  lattice  window.  I  rose  at  an 
early  hour,  and  looked  out  between  the  branches  of  eglantine 
which  overhung  the  casement.  To  my  surprise  Scott  was  already 
up  and  forth,  seated  on  a  fragment  of  stone,  and  chatting  with 
the  workmen  employed  on  the  new  building.  I  had  supposed, 
after  the  time  he  had  wasted  upon  me  yesterday,  he  would  be 
closely  occupied  this  morning,  but  he  appeared  like  a  man  of 
leisure,  who  had  nothing  to  do  but  bask  in  the  sunshine  and 
amuse  himself. 

I  soon  dressed  myself  and  joined  him.  He  talked  about  his 
proposed  plans  of  Abbotsford ;  happy  would  it  have  been  for 
him  could  he  have  contented  himself  with  his  delightful  little 
vine-covered  cottage,  and  the  simple,  yet  hearty  and  hospitable 
style,  in  which  he  lived  at  the  time  of  my  visit.  The  great 
pile  of  Abbotsford,  with  the  huge  expense  it  entailed  upon  him, 
of  servants,  retainers,  guests,  and  baronial  style,  was  a  drain 
upon  his  purse,  a  tax  upon  his  exertions,  and  a  weight  upon 
his  mind,  that  finally  crushed  him. 

As  yet,  however,  all  was  in  embryo  and  perspective,  and 
Scott  pleased  himself  with  picturing  out  his  future  residence, 
as  he  would  one  of  the  fanciful  creations  of  his  own  romances. 
"  It  was  one  of  his  air  castles,"  he  said,  "  which  he  was  reduc- 
ing to  solid  stone  and  mortar."  About  the  place  were  strewed 
vai'ious  morsels  from  the  ruins  of  Melrose  Abbey,  which  were 
to  be  incorporated  in  his  mansion.  Re  had  already  constructed 
out  of  similar  materials  a  kind  of  Gothic  shrine  over  a  spring, 
and  had  surmounted  it  by  a  small  stone  cross. 

Among  the  relics  from  the  Abbey  which  lay  scattered  before 
ns,  Avas  a  most  quaint  and  antique  little  Hon,  either  of  red 
st<>no,  or  painted  red,  which  hit  my  fancy.  I  forgot  whose 
cognizance  it  was ;  but  I  shall  never  forget  the  delightful  obser- 
vations concerning  old  Melrose  to  which  it  accidentally 
rise. 


26  ABBOTSFORD. 

The  Abbey  was  evidently  a  pile  that  called  up  all  Scott's 
poetic  and  romantic  feelings ;  and  one  to  which  he  was  enthu- 
siastically attached  by  the  most  fanciful  and  delightful  of  his 
early  associations.  He  spoke  of  it,  I  may  say,  with  affection. 
"  There  is  no  telling/ '  said  he,  "what  treasures  are  hid  in  that 
glorious  old  pile.  It  is  a  famous  place  for  antiquarian  plunder? 
there  are  such  rich  bits  of  old  time  sculpture  for  the  architect, 
and  old  time  story  for  the  poet.  There  is  as  rare  picking  in  it  i 
as  a  Stilton  cheese,  and  in  the  same  taste — the  mouldier  the 
better/' 

He  went  onto  mention  circumstances  of  "  mighty  import " 
connected  with  the  Abbey,  which  had  never  been  touched,  and 
which  had  even  escaped  the  researches  of  Johnny  Bower. 
The  heart  of  Robert  Bruce,  the  hero  of  Scotland,  had  been 
buried  in  it.  He  dwelt  on  the  beautiful  story  of  Bruce's  pious 
and  chivalrous  request  in  his  dying  hour,  that  his  heart  might 
be  carried  to  the  Holy  Land  and  placed  in  the  Holy  Sepulchre, 
in  fulfilment  of  a  vow  of  pilgrimage ;  and  of  the  loyal  expedi- 
tion of  Sir  James  Douglas  to  convey  the  glorious  relic.  Much 
might  be  made,  he  said,  out  of  the  adventures  of  Sir  James  in 
that  adventurous  age ;  of  his  fortunes  in  Spain,  and  his  death 
in  a  crusade  against  the  Moors ;  with  the  subsequent  fortunes 
of  the  heart  of  Robert  Bruce,  until  it  was  brought  back  to 
its  native  land,  and  enshrined  within  the  holy  walls  of  old 
Melrose. 

As  Scott  sat  on  a  stone  talking  in  this  way,  and  knocking 
with  his  staff  against  the  little  red  lion  which  lay  prostrate' 
before  him,  his  gray  eyes  twinkled  beneath  his  shagged  eye- 
brows ;  scenes,  images,  incidents,  kept  breaking  upon  his  mind 
as  he  proceeded,  mingled  with  touches  of  the  mysterious  and 
supernatural  as  connected  with  the  heart  of  Bruce.  It  seemed 
as  if  a  poem  or  romance  were  breaking  vaguely  on  his  imagina- 
tion. That  he  subsequently  contemplated  something  of  the 
kind,  as  connected  with  this  subject,  and  with  his  favorite  ruin 
of  Melrose,  is  evident  from  his  introduction  to  "The  Monas- 
tery ;"  and  it  is  a  pity  that  he  never  succeeded  in  following  out 
these  shadowy,  but  enthusiastic  conceptions. 

A  summons  to  breakfast  broke  off  our  conversation,  when  I 
begged  to  recommend  to  Scott's  attention  my  friend  the  little 
red  lion,  who  had  led  to  such  an  interesting  topic,  and  hoped 
he  might  receive  some  niche  or  station  in  the  future  castle, 
worthy  of  his  evident  antiquity  and  apparent  dignity.  Scott 
assured  me,  with  comic  gravity,  that  the  valiant  little  lion 


AJSBOT8F0RD.  2? 

should  be  most  honorably  entertained ;  I  hope,  therefore,  that 
he  still  flourishes  at  Abbotsford. 

Before  dismissing  the  theme  of  the  relics  from  the  Abbey,  I 
will  mention  another,  illustrative  of  Scott's  varied  humors. 
This  was  a  human  skull,  which  had  probably  belonged  of  yore 
to  one  of  those  jovial  friars,  so  honorably  mentioned  in  the  old 
border  ballad : 

"  O  the  monks  of  Melrose  made  glide  kale 
On  Fridays,  when  they  fasted; 
They  wanted  neither  beef  nor  ale, 
As  long  as  their  neighbors  lasted." 

This  skull  he  had  caused  to  be  cleaned  and  varnished,  and 
placed  it  on  a  chest  of  drawers  in  his  chamber,  immediately 
opposite  his  bed ;  where  I  have  seen  it,  grinning  most  dismally. 
It  was  an  object  of  great  awe  and  horror  to  the  superstitious 
housemaids ;  and  Scott  used  to  amuse  himself  with  their  appre- 
hensions. Sometimes,  in  changing  his  dress,  he  would  leave 
his  neck-cloth  coiled  round  it  like  a  turban,  and  none  of  the 
"lasses"  dared  to  remove  it.  It  was  a  matter  of  great  wonder 
and  speculation  among  them  that  the  laird  should  have  such 
an  "awsome  fancy  for  an  auld  girning  skull." 

At  breakfast  that  morning  Scott  gave  an  amusing  account  of 
a  little  Highlander  called  Campbell  of  the  North,  who  had  a 
lawsuit  of  many  years'  standing  with  a  nobleman  in  his  neigh- 
borhood about  the  boundaries  of  their  estates.  It  was  the  lead- 
ing object  of  the  little  man's  life ;  the  running  theme  of  all  his 
conversations ;  he  used  to  detail  all  the  circumstances  at  full 
length  to  everybody  he  met,  and,  to  aid  him  in  his  description 
of  the  premises,  and  make  his  story  ' '  mair  preceese, "  he  had  a 
great  map  made  of  his  estate,  a  huge  roll  several  feet  long, 
which  he  used  to  carry  about  on  his  shoulder.  Campbell  was 
a  long-bodied,  but  short  and  bandy-legged  little  man,  always 
clad  in  the  Highland  garb ;  and  as  he  went  about  with  this 
great  roll  on  his  shoulder,  and  his  little  legs  curving  like  a  pair 
of  parentheses  below  his  kilt,  he  was  an  odd  figure  to  behold. 
He  was  like  little  David  shouldering  the  spear  of  Goliath, 
which  was  "like  unto  a  weaver's  beam." 

Whenever  sheep-shearing  was  over,  Campbell  used  to  set 
out  for  Edinburgh  to  attend  to  his  lawsuit.  At  the  inns  he 
paid  double  for  all  his  meals  and  his  night's  lodgings,  telling 
the  landlords  to  keep  it  in  mind  until  his  return,  so  that  he 
might  come  back  that  way  at  free  cost ;  for  he  knew,  he  said, 


28  ABBQTSFOBD. 

thai  he  would  spend  all  his  money  among  the  lawyers  at  Edin- 
burgh, so  he  thought  it  best  to  secure  a  retreat  home  again. 

On  one  of  his  visits  he  called  upon  his  lawyer,  but  was  told 
he  was  not  at  home,  but  his  lady  was.  "It's  just  the  same 
tiling,"  said  little  Campbell.  On  being  shown  into  the  parlor, 
he  unrolled  Ins  map,  stated  his  case  at  full  length,  and,  having 
■  through  with  his  story,  gave  her  the  customary  fee.  Shi 
would  have  declined  it,  but  he  insisted  on  her  taking  it.  "| 
ha1  had  just  as  much  pleasure/'  said  he,  "in  teUing  the  whole 
tale  to  you.  as  I  should  have  had  in  telling  it  to  your  husband 
and  I  believe  full  as  much  profit." 

The  last  time  he  saw  Scott,  he  told  him  he  believed  he  and 
the  laird  were  near  a  settlement,  as  they  agreed  to  within  a  few 
miles  of  the  boundary.  If  I  recollect  right,  Scott  added  that 
he  advised  the  little  man  to  consign  his  cause  and  his  map  to 
the  care  of  "Slow  Willie  Mowbray,"  of  tedious  memory,  an 
Edinburgh  worthy,  much  employed  by  the  country  people,  for 
he  tired  out  everybody  in  office  by  repeated  visits  and  drawling, 
endless  prolixity,  and  gained  every  suit  by  dint  of  boring. 

These  little  stories  and  anecdotes,  winch  abounded  in  Scott's 
conversation,  rose  naturally  out  of  the  subject,  and  were  per- 
fectly unforced ;  though,  in  Cms  relating  them  in  a  detached 
way,  without  the  observations  or  circumstances  which  led  to 
them,  and  which  have  passed  from  my  recollection,  they  want 
their  setting  to  give  them  proper  relief.  They  will  serve,  how- 
ever, to  show  the  natural  play  of  his  mind,  in  its  familiar 
moods,  and  its  fecundity  in  graphic  and  characteristic  detail. 

His  daughter  Sophia  and  his  son  Charles  were  those  of  his 
family  who  seemed  most  to  feel  and  understand  his  humors, 
and  to  take  delight  in  his  conversation.  Mrs.  Scott  did  not 
always  pay  the  same  attention,  and  would  now  and  then  make 
^  casual  remark  which  would  operate  a  little  like  a  damper. 
Thus,  one  morning  at  breakfast,  when  Dominie  Thomson,  the 
tutor,  was  present,  Scott  was  going  on  with  great  glee  to  relate 
an  anecdote  of  the  laird  of  Macnab,  "who,  poor  fellow,"  pre- 
mised he,  "is  dead  and  gone—"  "Why,  Mr.  Scott,"  exclaimed 
the  good  lady,  "  Macnab's  not  dead,  is  he?"  "Faith,  my  dear," 
replied  Scott,  with  humorous  gravity,  "if  he's  not  dead  they've 
done  him  great  injustice— for  they've  buried  him." 

The  joke  passed  harmless  and  unnoticed  by  Mrs.  Scott,  but 
hit  the  poor  Dominie  just  as  he  had  raised  a  cup  of  tea  to  his 
lips,  causing  a  burst  of  laughter  which  sent  half  of  the  contents 
about  the  table. 


AIWOrSFoRl).  29 

After  breakfast.  Scott  was  occupied  for  sometime  correcting 
proof-sheets  which  he  had  received  by  the  mail.  The  novel  of 
Rob  Roy,  as  I  have  already  observed,  was  at  that  time  in  the 
press,  and  I  supposed  them  to  be  the  proof-sheets  of  that  work. 
The  authorship  of  the  Waverley  novels  was  still  a  matter  of 
conjecture  and  uncertainty;  though  few  doubted  their  being 
principally  written  by  Scott.  One  proof  to  me  of  his  being  the 
author,  was  that  he  never  adverted  to  them.  A  man  so  fond 
of  anything  Scottish,  and  anything  relating  to  national  history 
or  local  legend,  could  not  have  been  mute  respecting  such 
productions,  had  they  been  written  by  another.  He  was  fond 
of  quoting  the  works  of  his  contemporaries ;  he  was  continually 
reciting  scraps  of  border  songs,  or  relating  anecdotes  of  border 
story.  With  respect  to  his  own  poems,  and  their  merits,  how- 
ever, he  was  mute,  and  while  with  him  I  observed  a  scrupulous 
silence  on  the  subject. 

I  may  here  mention  a  singular  fact,  of  which  I  was  not 
aware  at  the  time,  that  Scott  was  very  reserved  with  his  chil- 
dren respecting  his  own  writings,  and  was  even  disinclined  to 
their  reading  his  romantic  poems.  I  learnt  this,  some  time 
after,  from  a  passage  in  one  of  his  letters  to  me,  adverting  to  a 
set  of  the  American  miniature  edition  of  his  poems,  which,  on 
my  return  to  England,  I  forwarded  to  one  of  the  young  ladies. 
"In  my  hurry,"  writes  he,  "I  have  not  thanked  you,  in 
Sophia's  name,  for  the  kind  attention  which  furnished  her  with 
the  American  volumes.  I  am  not  quite  sure  I  can  add  my 
own,  since  you  have  made  her  acquainted  with  much  more  of 
papa's  folly  than  she  would  otherwise  have  learned ;  for  I  have 
taken  special  care  they  should  never  see  any  of  these  things 
during  their  earlier  years. " 

To  return  to  the  thread  of  my  narrative.  When  Scott  had 
got  through  his  brief  literary  occupation,  we  set  out  on  a  ram- 
ble. The  young  ladies  started  to  accompany  us,  but  they  had 
not  gone  far,  when  they  met  a  poor  old  laborer  and  his  dis- 
tressed family,  and  turned  back  to  take  them  to  the  house, 
and  relieve  them. 

On  passing  the  bounds  of  Abbotsford,  we  came  upon  a 
bleak-looking  farm,  with  a  forlorn,  crazy  old  manse,  or  farm- 
house, standing  in  naked  desolation.  This,  however,  Scott 
told  me,  was  an  ancient  hereditary  property  called  Lauckend, 
about  as  valuable  as  the  patrimonial  estate  of  Don  Quixote, 
and  which,  in  like  manner,  conferred  an  hereditary  dignity 
upon  its  proprietor,  who  was  a  lajrd,  and,  though  poor  as  a  rat, 


30  ABBOTSFORD. 

prided  himself  upon  his  ancient  blood,  and  the  standing  of  his 
house.  He  was  accordingly  called  Lauckend,  according  to  the 
Scottish  custom  of  naming  a  man  after  his  family  estate,  but 
he  was  more  generally  known  through  the  country  round  by 
the  name  of  Lauckie  Long  Legs,  from  the  length  of  his  limbs. 
While  Scott  was  giving  tins  account  of  him,  we  saw  him  at  a 
distance  striding  along  one  of  his  fields,  with  his  plaid  flutter- 
ing about  him,  and  he  seemed  well  to  deserve  his  appellation, 
for  he  looked  all  legs  and  tartan. 

Lauckie  knew  nothing  of  the  world  beyond  his  neighborhood. 
Scott  told  me  that  on  returning  to  Abbotsford  from  his  visit  to 
France,  immediately  after  the  war,  he  was  called  on  by  his 
neighbors  generally  to  inquire  after  foreign  parts.  Among 
the  number  came  Lauckie  Long  Legs  and  an  old  brother  as 
ignorant  as  himself.  They  had  many  inquiries  to  make  about 
the  French,  whom  they  seemed  to  consider  some  remote  and 
semi-barbarous  horde — "  And  what  like  are  thae  barbarians  in 
their  own  country?"  said  Lauckie,  "  can  they  write? — can  they 
cipher?'1  He  was  quite  astonish sd  to  learn  that  they  were 
nearly  as  much  advanced  in  civilization  as  the  gude  folks  of 
Abbotsford. 

After  living  for  a  long  time  in  single  blessedness,  Lauckie  all 
at  once,  and  not  long  before  my  visit  to  the  neighborhood,  took 
it  into  his  head  to  get  married.  The  neighbors  were  all  sur- 
prised ;  but  the  family  connection,  who  were  as  proud  as  they 
were  poor,  were  grievously  scandalized,  for  they  thought  the 
young  woman  on  whom  he  had  set  his  mind  quite  beneath  him. 
It  was  in  vain,  however,  that  they  remonstrated  on  the  misal- 
liance he  was  about  to  make ;  he  was  not  to  be  swayed  from 
his  determination.  Arraying  himself  in  his  best,  and  saddling 
a  gaunt  steed  that  might  have  rivalled  Eosinante,  and  placing 
a  pillion  behind  his  saddle,  he  departed  to  wed  and  bring  home 
the  humble  lassie  who  was  to  be  made  mistress  of  the  venera- 
ble hovel  of  Lauckend,  and  who  lived  in  a  village  on  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  Tweed. 

A  small  event  of  the  kind  makes  a  great  stir  in  a  little  quiet 
country  neighborhood.  The  word  soon  circulated  through  the 
village  of  Melrose,  and  the  cottages  in  its  vicinity,  that  Lauckie 
Long  Legs  had  gone  over  the  Tweed  to  fetch  home  his  bride. 
All  the  good  folks  assembled  at  the  bridge  to  await  his  return. 
Lauckie,  however,  disappointed  them ;  for  he  crossed  the  river 
at  a  distant  ford,  and  conveyed  his  bride  safe  to  his  mansion 
without  bemg  perceived. 


ABBOTSFOBD.  31 

Let  me  step  forward  in  the  course  of  events,  and  relate  the 
fate  of  poor  Lauckie,  as  it  was  communicated  to  me  a  year  or 
two  afterward  in  letter  by  Scott.  From  the  time  of  his  mar- 
riage he  had  no  longer  any  peace,  owing  to  the  constant  inter- 
meddling of  his  relations,  who  would  not  permit  him  to  be 
happy  in  his  own  way,  but  endeavored  to  set  him  at  variance 
with  his  wife.  Lauckie  refused  to  credit  any  of  their  stories  to 
her  disadvantage ;  but  the  incessant  warfare  he  had  to  wage  in 
defence  of  her  good  name,  wore  out  both  flesh  and  spirit.  His 
last  conflict  was  with  his  own  brothers,  in  front  of  his  paternal 
mansion.  A  furious  scolding  match  took  place  between  them ; 
Lauckie  made  a  vehement  profession  of  faith  in  favor  of  her 
immaculate  honesty,  and  then  fell  dead  at  the  threshold  of  his 
own  door.  His  person,  his  character,  his  name,  his  story,  and 
his  fate,  entitled  him  to  be  immortalized  in  one  of  Scott's 
novels,  and  I  looked  to  recognize  him  in  some  of  the  succeed- 
ing works  from  his  pen ;  but  I  looked  in  vain. 


After  passing  by  the  domains  of  honest  Lauckie,  Scott 
pointed  out,  at  a  distance,  the  Eildon  stone.  There  in  ancient 
days  stood  the  Eildon  tree,  beneath  which  Thomas  the  Rhymer, 
according  to  popular  tradition,  dealt  forth  his  prophecies,  some 
of  which  still  exist  in  antiquated  ballads. 

Here  we  turned  up  a  little  glen  with  a  small  burn  or  brook 
whimpering  and  dashing  along  it,  making  an  occasional  water- 
fall, and  overhung  in  some  places  with  mountain  ash  and 
weeping  birch.  We  are  now,  said  Scott,  treading  classic,  or 
rather  fairy  ground.  This  is  the  haunted  glen  of  Thomas  the 
Rhymer,  where  he  met  with  the  queen*  of  fairy  land,  and  this 
the  bogle  burn,  or  goblin  brook,  along  which  she  rode  on  her 
dapple-gray  palfrey,  with  silver  bells  ringing  at  the  bridle. 

"Here,1'  said  he,  pausing,  "is  Huntley  Bank,  on  which 
Thomas  the  Rhymer  lay  musing  and  sleeping  when  he  saw, 
or  dreamt  he  saw,  the  queen  of  Elfland : 

"  '  True  Thomas  lay  on  Huntlie  oank; 
A  ferlie  he  spied  wi'  his  e'e; 
And  there  he  saw  a  ladye  bright, 
Come  riding  down  by  the  Eildon  tree. 

"  '  Her  skirt  was  o'  the  grass-green  silk, 
Her  mantle  o'  the  velvet  fyne; 
At  ilka  tett  of  her  horse's  inane 
Hung  fifty  siller  bells  and  nine.'" 


32  ABBOTSFORD. 

Here  Scott  \  ^peated  several  of  the  stanzas  and  recounted  the 
circumstance  of  Thomas  the  Rhymer's  interview  with  the 
fairy,  and  his  being  transported  by  her  to  fairy  land— 

"  And  til  seven  years  were  gone  and  past, 
True  Thomas  on  earth  was  never  seen." 

"  It's  a  fine  old  story,"  said  he,  "and  might  be  wrought  up  into 
a  capital  tale." 

Scott  continued  on,  leading  the  way  as  usual,  and  limping  up 
the  wizard  glen,  talking  as  he  went,  but,  as  his  back  was 
toward  me,  I  could  only  hear  the  deep  growling  tones  of  his 
voice,  like  the  low  breathing  of  an  organ,  without  distin- 
guishing the  words,  until  pausing,  and  turning  his  face  toward 
me,  I  found  he  was  reciting  some  scrap  of  border  minstrelsy 
about  Th'  tthymer.   This  was  continually  the  case  in  my 

ramblings  with  him  about  this  storied  neighborhood.  His 
mind  was  fraught  with  the  traditionary  fictions  connected 
with  every  <  >bject  around  him,  and  he  would  breathe  it  forth  as 
he  went,  apparently  as  much  for  his  own  gratification  as  for 
that  of  his  companion. 

Nor  hill.  nOr  brook,  we  paced  along, 
But  had  its  legend  or  its  song." 

His  voice  was  deep  and  sonorous,  he  spoke  with  a  Scottish  ac- 
and  with  somewhat  of  the  Northumbrian  "burr," 
which,  to  my  mind,  gave  a  Doric  strength  and  simplicity  to 
his  elocution.  His  recitation  of  poetry  was,  at  times,  magnifi- 
cent. 

I  think  it  was  in  the  course  of  this  ramble  that  my  friend 
Hamlet,  the  black  greyhound,  got  into  a  bad  scrape.  The  dogs 
were  beating  about  the  glens  and  fields  as  usual,  and  had  been 
for  some  time  out  of  sight,  when  we  heard  a  barking  at  some 
distance  to  the  left.  Shortly  after  we  saw  some  sheep  scamper- 
ing on  the  hills,  with  the  dogs  after  them.  Scott  applied  to 
his  lips  the  ivory  whistle,  always  hanging  at  his  button-hole, 
and  soon  called  in  the  culprits,  excepting  Hamlet.  Hastening 
up  a  bank  which  commanded  a  view  along  a  fold  or  hollow  of 
the  hills,  we  beheld  the  sable  prince  of  Denmark  standing  by 
the  bleeding  body  of  a  sheep.  The  carcass  was  still  warm,  the 
throat  bore  marks  of  the  fatal  grip,  and  Hamlet's  muzzle  was 
stained  with  blood.  Never  was  culprit  more  completely  caught 
in  flagrante  delicto.  I  supposed  the  doom  of  poor  Hamlet  to  be 
sealed ;  for  no  higher  offence  can  be  committed  by  a  dog  in  a 
country  abounding  with  sheep-walks.     Scott,  however,  had  a 


ABBOTSFORD.  33 

greater  value  for  his  dogs  than  for  his  sheep.  They  were  his 
companions  and  friends.  Hairnet,  too,  though  an  irregular, 
impertineni  kind  of  youngster,  was  evidently  a  favorite.  He 
would  not  i  or  some  time  believe  it  could  be  he  who  had  killed 
the  sheep.  It  must  have  been  some  cur  of  the  neighborhood, 
that  had  made  off  on  our  approach  and  left  poor  Hamlet  in  the 
lurch.  Proofs,  however,  were  too  strong,  and  Hamlet  was  gen- 
erally condemned.  ''Well,  well,'"  said  Scott,  "it's  partly  my 
yw\\  fault.  I  have  given  up  coursing  for  some  time  past,  and 
the  poor  dog  has  had  no  chance  after  game  to  take  the  fire  edge 
off  of  him.  If  he  was  put  after  a  hare  occasionally  he  never 
would  meddle  with  sheep." 

I  understood,  afterward,  that  Scott  actually  got  a  pony,  and 
went  out  now  and  then  coursing  with  Hamlet,  who,  in  conse- 
quence, showed  no  further  inclination  for  mutton. 


A  further  stroll  among  the  hills  brought  us  to  what  Scott 
pronounced  the  remains  of  a  Roman  camp,  and  as  we  sat  upon 
a  hillock  which  had  once  formed  a  part  of  the  ramparts,  he 
pointed  out  the  traces  of  the  lines  and  bulwarks,  and  the  prse- 
torium,  and  showed  a  knowledge  of  castramatation  that"  would 
not  have  disgraced  the  antiquarian  Oldbuck  himself.  Indeed, 
various  circumstances  that  I  observed  about  Scott  during  my 
visit,  concurred  to  persuade  me  that  many  of  the  antiq  larian 
humors  of  Monkbarns  were  taken  from  hip  own  richly  com- 
pounded character,  and  that  some  of  die  scenes  and  personages 
of  that  admirable  novel  were  ffrnished  by  his  immediate 
neighborhood. 

He  gave  me  several  anecdotes  of  a  noted  pauper  named  An- 
drew Gemmells,  or  Gammel,  as  it  was  pronounced,  who  had 
once  flourished  on  the  banks  of  Galla  Water,  immediately 
ite  Abbot  ad  whom  he  had  seen  and  talked  and 

joked  with  when  a  boy ;  and  I  instantly  recognized  the  likeness 
of  that  mirror  of  philosophy  Xestor  of  beggars, 

Edie  Ochiltree.  I  was  on  the  point  of  pronouncing  the  name 
and  recognizing  the  portrait,  when  I  recollected  the  incognito 
observed  by  Scott  with  respect  to  his  novels,  and  checked  my- 
self; but  it  was  one  among  many  things  thattended  to  convince 
me  of  his  authorsl 

His  picture  of  Andrew  Gemmells  exactly  accorded  with  that 
of  Edie  as  to  his  h<  :  tier-like  air, 


34  ABB0T8F0RD. 

Ins  arch  and  sarcastic  humor.  His  home,  if  home  he  had, 
was  at  Galashiels;  but  he  went  "  daundering "  about  the  coun- 
try, along  the  green  shays  and  beside  the  burns,  and  was  a 
kind  of  walking  chronicle  throughout  the  valleys  of  the  Tweed, 
the  Ettrick,  and  the  Yarrow ;  carrying  the  gossip  from  house 
to  house,  commenting  on  the  inhabitants  and  their  concerns, 
and  never  hesitating  to  give  them  a  dry  rub  as  to  any  of  their 
faults  or  follies. 

A  shrewd  beggar  like  Andrew  Gemmells,  Scott  added,  who 
could  sing  the  old  Scotch  airs,  tell  stories  and  traditions,  and 
gossip  away  the  long  winter  evenings,  was  by  no  means  an  un- 
welcome visitor  at  a  lonely  manse  or  cottage.  The  children 
would  run  -to  welcome  him,  and  place  his  stool  in  a  warm 
corner  of  the  ingle  nook,  and  the  old  folks  would  receive  him  as 
a  privileged  guest. 

As  to  Andrew,  he  looked  upon  them  all  as  a  parson  does 
upon  his  parishioners,  and  considered  the  alms  he  received  as 
much  his  due  as  the  other  does  his  tithes.  "  I  rather  think," 
added  Scott,  "  Andrew  considered  himself  more  of  a  gentleman 
than  those  who  toiled  for  a  living,  and  that  he  secretly  looked 
down  upon  the  painstaking  peasants  that  fed  and  sheltered 
him." 

He  had  derived  his  aristocratical  notions  in  some  degree  from 
being  admitted  occasionally  to  a  precarious  sociability  with 
some  of  the  small  country  gentry,  who  were  sometimes  in  want 
of  company  to  help  while  away  the  time.  With  these  Andrew 
would  now  and  then  play  at  cards  and  dice,  and  he  never  lacked 
"  siller  in  pouch"  to  stake  on  a  game,  which  he  did  with  a  per- 
fect air  of  a  man  to  whom  money  was  a  matter  of  little  moment, 
and  no  one  could  lose  his  money  with  more  gentlemanlike 
coolness. 

Among  those  who  occasionally  admitted  him  to  this  familiar- 
ity, was  old  John  Scott  of  Galla,  a  man  of  family,  who  inhab- 
ited his  paternal  mansion  of  Torwoodlee.  Some  distinction  ol 
rank,  however,  was  still  kept  up.  The  laird  sat  on  the  inside 
of  the  window  and  the  beggar  on  the  outside,  and  they  played 
cards  on  the  sill. 

Andrew  now  and  then  told  the  laird  a  piece  of  his  mind  very 
freely ;  especially  on  one  occasion,  when  he  had  sold  some  of 
his  paternal  lands  to  build  himself  a  larger  house  with  the  pro- 
ceeds. The  speech  of  honest  Andrew  smacks  of  the  shrewdness 
of  Edie  Ochiltree. 

"  It's  a'  varra  weel— it's  a'  varra  weel,  Torwoodlee,"  said  he* 


ABBOTSFOBD.  3(5 

"  but  who  would  ha'  thought  that  your  father's  son  would  ha' 
sold  two  gude  estates  to  build  a  shaw's  (cuckoo's)  nest  on  the 
side  of  a  hill?" 


That  day  there  was  an  arrival  at  Abbotsford  of  two  English 
tourists;  one  a  gentleman  of  fortune  and  landed  estate,  the 
a  young  clergyman  whom  he  appeared  to  have  under  his 
patronage,  and  to  have  brought  with  him  as  a  travelling  com- 
panion. 

The  patron  was  one  of  those  well-bred,  commonplace  gentle- 
men with  which  England  is  overrun.  He  had  great  deference 
for  Scott,  and  endeavored  to  acquit  himself  learnedly  in  his 
company,  aiming  continually  at  abstract  disquisitions,  for 
which  Scott  had  little  relish.  The  conversation  of  the  latter, 
as  usual,  was  studded  with  anecdotes  and  stories,  some  of  them 
of  great  pith  and  humor;  the  well-bred  gentleman  was  either 
too  dull  to  feel  their  point,  or  too  decorous  to  indulge  in  hearty 
merriment;  the  honest  parson,  on  the  contrary,  who  was  not 
too  refined  to  be  happy,  laughed  loud  and  long  at  every  joke, 
and  enjoyed  them  with  the  zest  of  a  man  who  has  more  merri- 
ment in  his  heart  than  coin  in  his  pocket. 

After  they  were  gone,  some  comments  were  made  upon  their 
diiferent  deportments.  Scott  spoke  very  respectfully  of  the 
good  breeding  and  measured  manners  of  the  man  of  wealth, 
but  with  a  kindlier  feeling  of  the  honest  parson,  and  the  homely 
but  hearty  enjoyment  with  which  he  relished  every  pleasantry. 
"  I  doubt,"  said  he,  "  whether  the  parson's  lot  in  life  is  not  the 
best ;  if  he  cannot  command  as  many  of  the  good  things  of  this 
world  by  Ins  own  purse  as  his  patron  can,  he  beats  him  all  hol- 
low in  his  enjoyment  of  them  when  set  before  him  by  others. 
Upon  the  whole,"  added  he,  "I  rather  think  I  prefer  the  honest 
parson's  good  humor  to  his  patron's  good  breeding ;  I  have  a 
great  regard  for  a  hearty  laugher. "' 

He  went  on  to  speak  of  the  great  influx  of  English  travellers 
which  of  late  years  had  inundated  Scotland;  and  doubted 
whether  they  had  not  injured  the  old-fashioned  Scottish  char- 
acter. "  Formerly  they  came  here  occasionally  as  spoilsmen," 
said  he,  "  to  shoot  moor  game,  without  any  idea  of  looking  at 
scenery;  and  they  moved  about  the  country  in  hardy  simple 
style,  coping  with  the  country  people  in  their  own  way;  but 
now  they  come  rolling  about  in  their  equipages,  to  see  ruins, 
and  spend  money,  and  their  lavish  extravagance  has  played 


36  IBBOTXFORD. 

the  vengeance  with  the  common  people.  It  has  made  them 
rapacious  in  their  dealings  with  strangers,  greedy  after  money, 
and  extortionate  in  their  demands  for  the  most  trivial 
services-  Formerly/1  continued  he,  "  the  poorer  classes  of  our 
people  were,  comparatively,  disinterested;  they  offered  their 
services  gratuitously,  in  promoting  the  amusement,  or  aiding 
the  curiosity  of  strangers,  and  were  gratified  by  the  smallest 
compensation ;  but  now  they  make  a  trade  of  showing  rocks 
and  ruins,  and  are  as  greedy  as  Italian  cicerones.  They  look 
upon  the  English  as  so  many  walking  money-bags ;  the  more 
they  are  shaken  and  poked,  the  more  they  will  leave  behind 
them." 

I  told  him  that  he  had  a  great  deal  to  answer  for  on  that 
head,  since  it  was  the  romantic  associations  he  had  thrown  by 
his  writings  over  so  many  out-of-the-way  places  in  Scotland, 
that  had  brought  in  the  influx  of  curious  travellers. 

Scott  laughed,  and  said  he  believed  I  might  be  in  some  meas- 
ure in  the  right,  as  he  recollected  a  circumstance  in  point. 
Being  one  time  at  Glenross,  an  old  woman  who  kept  a  small 
inn,  which  had  but  little  custom,  was  uncommonly  officious  in 
1 1  er  attendance  upon  him,  and  absolutely  incommoded  him  with 
her  civilities.  The  secret  at  length  came  out.  As  he  was  about 
to  depart,  she  addressed  him  with  many  curtsies,  and  said  she 
understood  he  was  the  gentleman  that  had  written  a  bonnie 
book  about  Loch  Katrine.  She  begged  him  to  write  a  little 
about  their  lake  also,  for  she  understood  his  book  had  done  the 
inn  at  Loch  "Katrine  a  muckle  deal  of  good. 

On  the  following  day  I  made  an  excursion  with  Scott  and  the 
young  ladies  to  Dryburgh  Abbey.  We  went  in  an  open  car- 
riage, drawn  by  two  sleek  old  black  horses,  for  which  Scott 
seemed  to  have  an  affection,  as  he  had  for  every  dumb  animal 
that  belonged  to  him.  Our  road  lay  tnrougn  a  variety  of 
scenes,  rich  in  poetical  and  historical  associations,  about  most 
of  which  Scott  had  something  to  relate.  In  one  part  of  the 
drive,  he  pointed  to  an  old  border  keep,  or  fortress,  on  the 
summit  of  a  naked  hill,  several  miles  off,  which  he  called  Small- 
holm  Tower,  and  a  rocky  knoll  on  which  it  stood,  the  "Sandy 
Knowe  crags."  It  was  a  place,  he  said,  peculiarly  dear  to  him, 
from  the  recollections  of  childhood.  His  father  had  lived  there 
in  the  old  Smallholm  Grange,  or  farm-house ;  and  he  had  been 
sent  there,  when  but  two  years  old,  on  account  of  his  lameness, 
that  he  might  have  the  benefit  of  the  pure  air  of  the  hills,  and 
be  under  the  care  of  his  grandmother  and  aunts. 


ABBOTSFORD. 

In  the  introduction  of  one  of  the  cantos  of  Marmi< 
depicted  his  grand  and  the  fireside  of  tin    tarm-house; 

and  has  given  an  amusing  picture  of  himself  in  his  b 
years: 

M  St > II  with,  vain  fondness  conk)  1  trace 
Anew  each  kin!  familiar  I 
That  brightened  at  our  evening  lire; 
From  fchi  a\ --haired  sire, 

Wis-  without  learning,  plain  and 
And  sprung  of  Scotland's  gentler  blood; 
Whose  eye  in  age,  quick,  clear  and  keen, 
Showed  what  in  youth  its  glance  had  been  ; 
Whose  doom  discording  neighbors  sought, 
Content  with  equity  unbought; 
To  him  the  venerable  ] 
Our  freoTtent  and  familiar  guest, 
Whose  life  and  manners  well  could  paint 
Alike  the  student  and  the  saint: 
Alas:  whose  speech  too  oft  I  broke 
With  gambol  rude  and  timeless  joke; 
For  I  was  wayward,  bold,  and  wild. 
A  self-willed  imp,  a  grandame's  child; 
But  half  a  plague,  and  half  a  jest. 
Was  still  endured,  beloved,  earest." 
\ 

It  was,  he  said,  during  his  residence  at  Smallliolm  crags  that 
he  first  imbibed  Ins  passion  for  legendary  tales,  border  tradi- 
tions, and  old  national  songs  and  ballads.  His  grandmother 
and  aunts  were  well  versed  in  that  kind  of  lore,  so  current  in 
Scottish  country  life.  They  used  to  recount  them  in  long, 
gloomy  winter  days,  and  about  the  ingle  nook  at  night,  in  con- 
clave with  their  gossip  visitors;  and  little  Walter  would  sit 
and  listen  with  greedy  ear ;  thus  taking  into  his  infant  mind 
the  seeds  of  many  a  splendid  fiction. 

There  was  an  old  shepherd,  he  said,  in  the  service  of  the 
family,  who  used  to  sit  under  the  sunny  wall,  and  tell  marvel- 
lous stones,  and  recite  old  time  ballads,  as  he  knitted  stock- 
ings. Scott  used  to  be  wheeled  out  in  his  chair,  in  fine  wea- 
ther, and  would  sit  beside  the  old  man.  and  listen  to  him  for 
hours. 

The  situation  of  Sandy  Knowe  was  favorable  both  for  story- 
teller and  listener.  It  commanded  a  wide  view  over  all  the 
border  country,  with  its  feudal  towers,  its  haunted  glens,  and 
wizard  streams.  As  the  old  shepherd  told  his  tales,  he  could 
point  out  the  very  scene  of  action.  Thus,  before  Scott  could 
walk,  he  was  made  familiar  with  the  scenes  of  his  future  sto- 
ries: they  were  all  seen  as  through  a  magic  medium,  and  took 
that  tinge  of  romance,  which  they  ever  after  retained  in  his 


38  ABBOTSFOBD. 

imagination.  From  the  height  of  Sandy  Knowe,  he  may  be 
said  to  have  had  the  first  look-out  upon  the  promised  land  of 
his  future  glory. 

On  referring  to  Scott's  works,  I  find  many  of  the  circum- 
stances related  in  this  conversation,  about  the  old  tower,  and 
the  boyish  scenes  connected  with  it,  recorded  in  the  introduc- 
tion to  Marniion,  already  cited.  This  was  frequently  the  case 
with  Scott;  incidents  and  feelings  that  had  appeared  in  his 
writings,  were  apt  to  be  mingled  up  in  his  conversation,  for 
they  had  been  taken  from  what  he  had  witnessed  and  felt  in 
real  life,  and  were  connected  with  those  scenes  among  which 
he  lived,  and  moved,  and  had  his  being.  I  make  no  scruple  at 
quoting  the  passage  relative  to  the  tower,  though  it  repeats 
much  of  the  foregone  imagery,  and  with  vastly  superior  effect: 


Thus,  while  I  ape  the  measure  wild 

Of  tales  that  charmed  me  yet  a  child, 

Rude  though  they  be,  still  with  the  chime 

Return  the  thoughts  of  early  time  ; 

And  Feelings  roused  in  life's  first  day, 

•  Mow  in  the  line,  and  prompt  theTTay. 

Then  rise  those  crags,  that  mountain  tower. 

Which  charmed  my  fancy's  wakening  hour, 

Though  do  broad  river  swept  along 

To  claim  perchance  heroic  song; 

Though  sighed  no  groves  in  summer  gale 

To  prompt  of  love  a  softer  tale  ; 

Though  scarce  a  puny  streamlet's  speed 

Claimed  homage  from  a  shepherd's  reed; 

Yet  was  poetic  impulse  given, 

By  the  green  hill  and  clear  blue  heaven. 

It  was  a  barren  scene,  and  wild, 

Where  naked  cliffs  were  rudely  piled; 

But  ever  and  anon  between 

Lay  velvet  tufts  of  loveliest  green; 

And  well  the  lonely  infant  knew 

Recesses  where  the  wall-flower  grew, 

And  honej'-suckle  loved  to  crawl 

Up  the  low  crag  and  ruined  wall. 

I  deemed  such  nooks  the  sweetest  shade 

The  sun  in  all  his  round  surveyed; 

And  still  I  thought  that  shattered  tower 

The  mightiest  work  of  human  power; 

And  marvell'd  as  the  aged  hind 

With  some  strange  tale  bewitched  my  mind, 

Of  forayers,  who,  with  headlong  force, 

Down  from  that  strength  had  spurred  their  horse, 

Their  southern  rapine  to  renew, 

Far  in  the  distant  Cheviot's  blue, 

And,  home  returning,  filled  the  hall 

With  revel,  wassail-rout,  and  brawl— 


ABBOTSFORD.  39 

Methought  that  still,  with  tramp  and  clang 

The  gate-way's  broken  arches  rang; 

Methought  grim  features,  seamed  with  scars, 

Glared  through  the  window's  rusty  bars. 

And  ever  by  the  winter  hearth, 

Old  tales  I  heard  of  woe  or  mirth, 

Of  lovers'  slights,  of  ladies'  charms, 

Of  witches'  spells,  of  warriors'  arms; 

Of  patriot  battles,  won  of  old, 

By  Wallace  wight  and  Bruce  the  bold; 

Of  later  fields  of  feud  and  fight, 

When  pouring  from  the  Highland  height, 

The  Scottish  clans,  in  headlong  sway, 

Had  swept  the  scarlet  ranks  away. 

While  stretched  at  length  upon  the  floor, 

Again  I  fought  each  combat  o'er. 

Pebbles  and  shells,  in  order  laid, 

The  mimic  ranks  of  war  displayed; 

And  onward  still  the  Scottish  Lion  bore, 

And  still  the  scattered  Southron  fled  before." 

Scott  eyed  the  distant  height  of  Sandy  Knowe  with  an  ear- 
nest gaze  as  we  rode  along,  and  said  he  had  often  thought  of 
buying  the  place,  repairing  the  old  tower,  and  making  it  his 
residence.  He  has  in  some  measure,  however,  paid  off  his 
early  debt  of  gratitude,  in  clothing  it  with  poetic  and  romantic 
associations,  by  his  tale  of  "The  Eve  of  St.  John."  It  is  to  be 
hoped  that  those  who  actually  possess  so  interesting  a  monu- 
ment of  Scott's  early  days,  will  preserve  it  from  further  dilapi- 
dation. 

Not  far  from  Sandy  Knowe,  Scott  pointed  out  another  old 
border  hold,  standing  on  the  summit  of  a  hill,  which  had  been 
a  kind  of  enchanted  castle  to  him  in  his  boyhood.  It  was  the 
tower  of  Bemerside,  the  baronial  residence  of  the  Haigs,  or  De 
Hagas,  one  of  the  oldest  families  of  the  border.  ' '  There  had 
seemed  to  him,"  he  said,  "almost  a  wizard  spell  hanging  over 
it,  in  consequence  of  a  prophecy  of  Thomas  the  Rhymer,  in 
which,  in  his  young  days,  he  most  potently  believed:" 

"  Betide,  betide,  whate'er  betide. 
Haig  shall  be  Haig  of  Bemerside." 

Scott  added  some  particulars  which  showed  that,  in  the  pre- 
sent instance,  the  venerable  Thomas  had  not  proved  a  false 
prophet,  for  it  was  a  noted  fact  that,  amid  all  the  changes  and 
chances  of  the  border ;  through  all  the  feuds,  and  forays,  and 
sackings,  and  burnings,  which  had  reduced  most  of  the  castles 
1  o  ruins,  and  the  proud  families  that  once  possessed  them  to 


40  ABB0T8F0BD: 

poverty,  *bi  tower  of  Bemerside  still  remained  unscathed,  and 
was  still  *he  stronghold  of  the  ancient  family  of  Haig. 

Prophecies,  however,  often  insure  their  own  fulfilment.     It 

is  very  probable  that  the  prediction  of  Thomas  the  Rhymer 

has  linked  the  Haigs  to  their  tower,  as  their  rock  of  safety,  and 

hp/  induced  them  to  cling  to  it  almost  superstitiously,  through 

'  <:*dships  and   inconveniences  that  would,   otherwise,   have 

its  J  i  iandonment. 

fterwards  saw,  at  Dryburgh  Abbey,  the  burying  place  of 

predestinated  and  tenacious  family,  the  inscription  of 

which  showed  the  value  they  set  upon  their  antiquity: 

Locus  Sepulture, 

Antiquessimae  Families 

De  Haga 

De  Bemerside. 

In  reverting  to  the  days  of  his  childhood,  Scott  observed 
that  the  lameness  winch  had  disabled  him  in  infancy  gradually 
decreased ;  he  soon  acquired  strength  in  his  limbs,  and  though 
he  always  limped,  he  became,  even  in  boyhood,  a  great  walker. 
He  used  frequently  to  stroll  from  home  and  wander  about  the 
country  i  ogether,  picking  up  all  kinds  of  local  gossip, 

and  observing  popular  scenes  and  characters.  His  father  used 
to  be  vexed  with  him  for  this  wandering  propensity,  and, 
shaking  his  head,  would  say  he  fancied  the  boy  would 'make 
nothing  but  a  peddler.  As  he  grew  older  he  became  a  keen 
sportsman,  and  passed  much  of  his  time  hunting  and  shooting. 
His  field  sports  led  him  into  the  most  wild  and  unfrequented 
parts  of  the  country,  and  in  this  way  he  picked  up  much 
of  that  local  knowledge  which  he  has  since  evinced  in  his 
writings. 

His  first  visit  to  Loch  Katrine,  he  says,  was  in  his  boyish 
lays,  on  a  shooting  excursion.  The  island,  which  he  has  made 
the  romantic  residence  of  the  "Lady  of  the  Lake,"  was  then 
isoned  by  an  old  man  and  his  wife.  Their  house  was 
at  5  they  had  put  the  key  under  the  door,  and  were  absent 
fishing.  It  was  at  that  time  a  peaceful  residence,  but  became 
afterward  a  resort  of  smugglers,  until  they  were  ferreted  out. 

In  after  years,  when  Scott  began  to  turn  this  local  know- 
ledge to  literary  account,  he  revisited  many  of  those  scenes  of 
his  early  ramblings,  and  endeavored  to  secure  the  fugitive 
remains  of  the  traditions  and  songs  that  had  charmed  his  boy- 
hood.   When  collecting  materials  for  his  ' '  Border  Minstrelsy," 


ABBOTSFORD  41 

tie  used,  he  said,  to  go  from  cottage  to  cottage,  and  make  the 
old  wives  repeat  all  they  knew,  if  but  two  lines ;  and  by  put- 
ting these  scraps  together,  he  retrieved  many  a  fine  character- 
istic old  ballad  or  tradition  from  oblivion. 

I  regret  to  say  that  I  can  scarce  recollect  anything  of  our 
visit  to  Dryburgh  Abbey.  It  is  on  the  estate  of  the  Earl  of 
Buchan.  The  religious  edifice  is  a  mere  ruin,  rich  ih  Gothic 
antiquities,  but  especially  interesting  to  Scott,  from  containing 
the  family  vault,  and  the  tombs  and  monuments  of  Ins  ances- 
tors. He  appeared  to  feel  much  chagrin  at  their  being  in  the 
possession,  and  subject  to  the  intermeddlings  of  the  Earl,  who 
was  represented  as  a  nobleman  of  an  eccentric  character.  The 
latter,  however,  set  great  value  on  these  sepulchral  relics,  and 
had  expressed  a  lively  anticipation  of  one  day  or  other  having 
the  honor  of  burying  Scott,  and  adding  his  monument  to  the 
collection,  which  he  intended  should  be  worthy  of  the  ' '  mighty 
minstrel  of  the  north" — a  prospective  compliment  which  was 
by  no  means  relished  by  the  object  of  it. 

One  of  my  pleasant  rambles  with  Scott,  about  the  neighbor- 
hood of  Abbotsford,  was  taken  in  company  with  Mr..  William 
Laidlaw,  the  steward  of  his  estate.  This  was  a  gentleman  for 
whom  Scott  entertained  a  particular  value.  He  had  been  born 
to  a  competency,  had  been  well  educated,  his  mind  was  richly 
stored  with  varied  information,  and  he  was  a  man  of  sterling 
moral  worth.  Having  been  reduced  by  misfortune,  Scott 
had  got  him  to  take  charge  of  his  estate.  He  lived  at  a  small 
farm  on  the  hillside  above  Abbotsford,  and  was  treated  by 
Scott  as  a  cherished  and  confidential  friend,  rather  than  a 
dependent. 

As  the  day  was  showery,  Scott  was  attended  by  one  of  his 
retainers,  named  Tommie  Purdie,  who  carried  his  plaid,  and 
who  deserves  especial  mention.  Sophia  Scott  used  to  call  him 
her  father's  grand  ^izier,  and  she  gave  a  playful  account  one 
evening,  as  she  was  hanging  on  her  father's  arm,  of  the  con- 
sultations which  he  and  Tommie  used  to  have  about  matters 
relative  to  farming.  Purdie  was  tenacious  of  his  opinions, 
and  he  and  Scott  would  have  long  disputes  in  front  of  the 
house,  as  to  something  that  was  to  be  done  on  the  estate,  until 
the  latter,  fairly  tired  out,  would  abandon  the  ground  and  the 
argument,  exclaiming,  "Well,  well.  Tom,  have  it  your  own 
way." 

After  a  time,  however,  Purdie  would  present  himself  at  the 
door  of  the  parlor,  and  observe.  "I  ha'  been  thinking  over  the 


42  ABBOTSFORD. 

matter,  and  upon  the  whole.   T  think  I'll  take  your  honor's 
advice."' 

Scott  laughed  heartily  when  this  anecdote  was  told  of  him. 
"  It  was  with  him  and  Tom,"  he  said,  "as  it  was  with  an  old 
laird  and  a  pet  servant,  whom  he  had  indulged  until  he  was 
positive  beyond  all  endurance."'  "This  won't  do!"  cried  the 
old  laird,  in  a  passion,  "we  can't  live  together  any  longer- -we 
must  part."  "An'  where  the  deil  does  your  honor  mean  to 
go .'"  replied  the  other. 

I  would,  moreover,  observe  of  Tom  Purdie,  that  he  was  a 
firm  believer  in  ghosts,  and  warlocks,  and  all  kinds  of  old 
wives'  fable.  He  was  a  religious  man,  too,  mingling  a  little 
degree  of  Scottish  pride  in  his  devotion ;  for  though  his  salary 
was  but  twenty  pounds  a  year,  he  had  managed  to  afford 
seven  pounds  for  a  family  Bible.  It  is  true,  he  had  one  hun- 
dred poimds  clear  of  the  world,  and  was  looked  up  to  by  his 
comrades  as  a  man  of  property. 

In  the  course  of  our  morning's  walk,  we  stopped  at  a  small 
house  belonging  to  one  of  the  laborers  on  the  estate..  The 
object  of  Scott's  visit  was  to  inspect  a  relic  which  had  been 
digged  up  in  a  Roman  camp,  and  which,  if  I  recollect  right,  he 
pronounced  to  have  been  a  tongs.  It  was  produced  by  tho 
cottager's  wife,  a  ruddy,  healthy-looking  dame,  whom  Scott 
addressed  by  the  name  of  Ailie.  As  he  stood  regarding  the 
relic,  turning  it  round  and  round,  and  making  comments  upon 
it,  half  grave,  half  comic,  with  the  cottage  group  around  him, 
all  joining  occasionally  in,  the  colloquy,  the  inimitable  char- 
acter of  Monkbarns  was  again  brought  to  mind,  and  I  seemed 
to  see  before  me  that  prince  of  antiquarians  and  humorists 
holding  forth  to  his  unlearned  and  unbelieving  neighbors. 

Whenever  Scott  touched,  in  this  way,  upon  local  antiquities, 
and  in  all  his  familiar  conversations  about  local  traditions  and 
superstitions,  there  was  always  a  sly  and  quiet  humor  rimning 
at  the  bottom  of  his  discourse,  and  playing  about  his  counte- 
nance, as  if  he  sported  with  the  subject.  It  seemed  to  me  as 
if  he  distrusted  his  own  enthusiasm,  and  was  disposed  to  droll 
upon  his  own  humors  and  peculiarities,  yet,  at  the  same  time, 
a  poetic  gleam  in  his  eye  would  show  that  he  really  took  a 
strong  relish  and  interest  in  them.  "It  was  a  pity,"  he  said, 
"that  antiquarians  were  generally  so  dry,  for  the  subjects 
they  handled  were  rich  in  historical  and  poetical  recollections, 
in  picturesque  details,  in  quaint  and  heroic  characteristics,  and 
in  all  kinds  of  curious  arid  obsolete  ceremonials.    They  are 


ABBOTSFOIW.  43 

always  groping  among  the  rarest  materials  for  poetry,  but 
they  have  no  idea  of  turning  them  to  poetic  use.  Now  every 
fragment  from  old  times  has,  in  some  degree,  its  story  with  it, 
or  gives  an  inkling  of  something  characteristic  of  the  circum- 
stances and  manners  of  its  day,  and  so  sets  the  imagination  at 
work/' 

For  my  own  part  I  never  met  with  antiquarian  so  delightful, 
either  in  his  writings  or  his  conversation ;  and  the  quiet  sub- 
acid humor  that  was  prone  to  mingle  in  his  disquisitions,  gave 
them,  to  me,  a  peculiar  and  an  exquisite  flavor.  But  he  seemed, 
in  fact,  to  undervalue  everything  that  concerned  himself.  The 
play  of  his  genius  was  so  easy  that  he  was  unconscious  of  its 
mighty  power,  and  made  light  of  those  sports  of  intellect  that 
shamed  the  efforts  and  labors  of  other  minds. 

Our  ramble  tins  morning  took  us  again  up  the  Rhymer's 
Glen,  and  by  Huntley  Bank,  and  Huntley  Wood,  and  the  silver 
waterfall  overhung  with  weeping  birches  and  mountain  ashes, 
those  delicate  and  beautiful  trees  which  grace  the  green  shaws 
and  burnsides  of  Scotland.  The  heather,  too,  that  closely 
woven  robe  of  Scottish  landscape  which  covers  the  nakedness 
of  its  hills  and.  mountains,  tinted  the  neighborhood  with  soft 
and  rich  colors.  As  we  ascended  the  glen,  the  prospects  opened 
upon  us;  Melrose,  with  its  towers  and  pinnacles,  lay  below; 
beyond  were  the  Eildon  hills,  the  Cowden  Knowes,  the  Tweed, 
the  Galla  Water,  and  all  the  storied  vicinity ;  the  whole  land- 
scape varied  by  gleams  of  sunshine  and  driving  showers. 

Scott,  as  usual,  took  the  lead,  limping  along  with  great 
activity,  and  in  joyous  mood,  giving  scraps  of  border  rhymes 
and  border  stories ;  two  or  three  times  in  the  course  of  our  walk 
there  were  drizzling  showers,  which  I  supposed  would  put  an 
end  to  our  ramble,  but  my  companions  trudged  on  as  uncon- 
cernedly as  if  it  had  been  fine  weather. 

At  length,  I  asked  whether  we  had  not  better  seek  some  shel- 
ter. "True,"  said  Scott,  "I  did  not  recollect  that  you  were  not 
accustomed  to  our  Scottish  mists.  Tins  is  a  lachrymose  climate, 
evermore  showering.  We.  however,  are  children  of  the  mis1. 
and  must  not  mind  a  little  whimpering  of  the  clouds  any  more 
than  a  man  must  mind  the  weeping  of  an  hysterical  wife.  As 
you  are  not  accustomed  to  be  wet  through,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  in  a  mornings  walk,  we  will  bide  a  bit  under  the  lee  of 
this  bank  until  the  shower  is  over."  Taking  his  seat  under 
shelter  of  a  thicket,  he  called  to  his  man  George  for  his  tartan, 
thru  turning  to  me,  "Come,"  said  he,  "come  under  my  plaidy. 


44  ABBOTSFORD. 

as  the  old  song  goes;"  so,  making  me  nestle  down  beside  him, 
he  wrapped  a  part  of  the  plaid  round  me,  and  took  me,  as  lie 
said,  under  his  wing. 

While  we  were  thus  nestled  together,  he  pointed  to  a  hole 
in  the  opposite  bank  of  the  glen.  That,  he  said,  was  the  hole  of 
an  old  gray  badger,  who  was  doubtless  snugly  housed  in  this  bad 
aetimes  he  saw  him  at  the  entrance  of  his  hole, 
like  a  hermit  at  the  door  of  Ins  cell,  telling  his  beads,  or  reading 
a  homily.  He  had  a  great  respect  for  the  venerable  anchorite, 
and  would  not  suffer  him  to  be  disturbed.  He  was  a  kind  of 
successor  to  Thomas  the  Rhymer,  and  perhaps  might  be  Thomas 
himself  returned  from  fairy  land,  but  still  under  fairy  spell. 

Some  accident  turned  the  conversation  upon  Hogg,  the  poet, 
in  which  Laidlaw,  who  was  seated  beside  us,  took  a  part. 
Hogg  had  once  been  a  shepherd  in  the  service  of  his  father,  and 
Laidlaw  gave  many  interesting  anecdotes  of  him,  of  which  I 
now  retain  no  recollection.  They  used  to  tend  the  sheep 
together  when  Laidlaw  was  a  boy,  and  Hogg  would  recite  the 
first  struggling  conceptions  of  his  muse.  At  night  when  Laid- 
law was  quartered  comfortably  in  bed,  in  the  farmhouse,  poor 
Hogg  would  take  to  the  shepherd's  hut  in  the  field  on  the  hill- 
side, and  there  lie  awake  for  hours  together,  and  look  at  the 
stars  and  make  poetry,  which  he  would  repeat  the  next  day  to 
his  companion. 

Scott  spoke  in  warm  terms  of  Hogg,  and  repeated  passages 
from  his  beautiful  poem  of  "  Kelmeny,"  to  which  he  gave  great 
and  well-merited  praise.  He  gave,  also,  some  amusing  anec- 
dotes of  Hogg  and  his  publisher,  Blackwood,  who  was  at  that 
time  just  rising  into  the  bibliographical  importance  which  he 
has  since  enjoyed. 

-  Hogg,  in  one  of  his  poems,  I  believe  the  "Pilgrims  of  the 
Sun, "  had  dabbled  a  little  in  metaphysics,  and  like  his  heroes, 
had  got  into  the  clouds.  Blackwood,  who  began  to  affect  criti- 
cism, argued  stoutly  with  him  as  to  the  necessity  of  omitting 
or  elucidating  some  obscure  passage.     Hogg  was  immovable. 

"But,  man,"  said  Blackwood,  "I  dinna  ken  what  ye  mean 
in  this  passage. "  ' '  Hout  tout,  man, "  replied  Hogg,  impatiently, 
' '  I  dinna  ken  always  what  I  mean  mysel. "  There  is  many  a 
metaphysical  poet  in  the  same  predicament  with  honest  Hogg. 

Scott  promised  to  invite  the  Shepherd  to  Abbotsford  during 
my  visit,  and  I  anticipated  much  gratification  in  meeting  with 
him,  from  the  account  I  had  received  of  his  character  and 
manners,  and  the  great  pleasure  I  had  derived  from  his  works. 


ABB0T8F0RD.  !•"> 

Circumstances,  however,  prevented  Scott  from  performing  his 
preS^d  to  my  great  regret  I  left  Scotland  wrthout  seemg 
"   one  of  its  most  original  and  national  characters. 

When  the  weather  held  up,  we  continued  our  walk  until  we 
came  to  a  beautiful  sheet  of  water,  in  the  bosom  of  the  mourn 
called  if  I  recoUect  right,  the  lake  of  Cauldshiel.    Scott 
Wed  himself  much  upon  this  little  Mediterranean  sea  in  his 
'    minions,  and  hoped  I  was  not  too  much  spoiled  by  our  great 
£ta  America  to  relish  it.    He  proposed  to  take  me  out  to 
centre  of  it,  to  a  fine  point  of  view,  for  winch  purpose  we 
barked  in  a  small  boat,  which  had  been  put  on  the  lake  by 
1ns  neghbor,  Lord  Somerville.     As  I  was  about  to  step  on 
ht,rd  I  observed  in  large  letters  on  one  of  the  benches,  "Search 
No  2  "    I  paused  for  a  moment  and  repeated  the  inscription 
aloud'   trying  to  recoUect  something  I  had  heard  or  read  to 
which  it  alluded.     "Pshaw,"  cried  Scott,  "it  is  only  some  of 
Lord  SomervUle's  nonsense-get  in '."    In  an  instant  scenes  in 
toeAntiquary  connected  with  "Search  No.  1,"  flashed  upon  my 
mind      "Ah !  I  remember  now,"  said  I,  and  with  a  laugh  took 
mv  seat,  but  adverted  no  more  to  the  circumstance. 

We  had  a  pleasant  row  about  the  lake,  which  commanded 
some  pretty  scenerv.    The  most  interesting  circumstance  con- 
nected with  it,  however,  according  to  Scott,  was,  that  it  was 
haunted  by  a  bogle  in  the  shape  of  a  water  bull,  which  lived  ni 
the  deep  parts,  and  now  and  then  came  forth  upon  dry  land 
and  made  a  tremendous  roaring,  that  shook  the  very  hills. 
This  story  had  been  current  in  the  vicinity  from  tnne  immemo- 
rial—there  was  a  man  living  who  declared  he  had  seen  the 
hull  -and  he  was  believed  by  many  of  his  simple  neighbors. 
"  I  don't  choose  to  contradict  the  tale,"  said  Scott,     tor  I  am 
willing  to  have  mv  lake  stocked  with  any  fish,  fleshy  or  fowl 
that  mv  neighbors  think  proper  to  put  int.,  it; :  and Jfc«*e  old 
wives'  fables  are  a  kind  of  property  in  Scotland  that  .clones  to 
«  with  the  sofl.    Our  streams ,^  *>*">" 
.  the  rivers  and  pools  in  Germany,  that  have  all  their  Wasser 
Nixe,  or  water  witches,  and  I  have  a  fancy  for  these  kmd  of 
amphibious  hogles  and  hobgoblins." 

Scott  went  on  after  we  had  landed  to  make  many  remarks, 
mingled  with  picturesque  anecdotes,  concerning  the  fabulous 
with    which   the  Scoteh   were  apt  to  people  the  wild 
hsthal  occur  in  the  solemn  and  lonelj 


46 


ABBOTSFORD. 


of  their  mountains ;  and  to  compare  them  with  similar  super- 
stitions among  the  northern  nations  of  Europe ;  but  Scotland, 
he  said,  was  above  all  other  countries  for  this  wild  and  vivid 
progeny  of  the  fancy,  from  the  nature  of  the  scenery,  the 
misty  magnificence  and  vagueness  of  the  climate,  the  wild  and 
gloomy  events  of  its  history ;  the  clannish  divisions  of  its  peo- 
ple ;  their  local  feelings,  notions,  and  prejudices ;  the  individu- 
ality of  their  dialect,  in  which  all  kinds  of  odd  and  peculiar 
notions  were  incorporated ;  by  the  secluded  life  of  their  moun- 
taineers; the  lonely  habits  of  their  pastoral  people,  much  of 
whose  time  was  passed  on  the  solitary  hillsides;  their  tradi- 
tional songs,  winch  clothed  every  rock  and  stream  with  old 
world  stories,  handed  down  from  age  to  age,  and  generation  to 
generation.  The  Scottish  mind,  he  said,  was  made  up  of 
poetry  and  strong  common  sense ;  and  the  very  strength  of  the 
latter  gave  perpetuity  and  luxuriance  to  the  former.  It  was  a 
strong  tenacious  soil,  into  which,  when  once  a  seed  of  poetry 
fell,  it  struck  deep  root  and  brought  forth  abundantly.  ' '  You 
will  never  weed  these  popular  stories  and  songs  and  super- 
stitions out  of  Scotland,"  said  he.  "  It  is  not  so  much  that  the 
people  believe  in  them,  as  that  they  delight  in  them.  They  be- 
long to  the  native  hills  and  streams  of  which  they  are  fond, 
and  to  the  history  of  their  forefathers,  of  which  they  are 
proud.11 

"  It  would  do  your  heart  good,'1  continued  he,  "  to  see  a  num- 
ber of  our  poor  country  people  seated  round  the  ingle  nook, 
which  is  generally  capacious  enough,  and  passing  the  long 
dark  dreary  winter  nights  listening  to  some  old  wife,  or  stroll- 
ing gaberlunzie,  dealing  out  auld  world  stories  about  bogles 
and  warlocks,  or  about  raids  and  forays,  and  border  skir- 
mishes; or  reciting  some  ballad  stuck  full  of  those  fighting 
names  that  stir  up  a  true  Scotchman's  blood  like  the  sound  of 
a  trumpet.  These  traditional  tales  and  ballads  have  lived  for 
ages  in  mere  oral  circulation,  being  passed  from  father  to  son, 
or  rather  from  grandam  to  grandchild,  and  are  a  kind  of 
hereditary  property  of  the  poor  peasantry,  of  which  it  would 
be  hard  to  deprive  them,  as  they  have  not  circulating  libraries 
to  supply  them  with  works  of  fiction  in  their  place. " 

I  do  not  pretend  to  give  the  precise  words,  but,  as  nearly  as 
I  can  from  scanty  memorandums  and  vague  recollections,  the 
leading  ideas  of  Scott.  I  am  constantly  sensible,  however,  how 
far  I  fall  short  of  his  copiousness  and  richness. 

He  went  on  to  speak  of  the  elves  and  sprites,  so  frequent 


ABBOTSFORD.  47 

in  Scottish  legend.  "  Our  fairies,  however,"  said  he,  "  though 
they  dress  in  green,  and  gambol  by  moonlight  ajoout  the  banks, 
and  shaws,  and  burnsides,  are  not  such  pleasant  little  folks  as 
the  English  fairies,  but  are  apt  to  bear  more  of  the  warlock  in 
their  natures,  and  to  play  spiteful  tricks.  When  I  was  a  boy,  I 
used  to  look  wistfully  at  the  green  hillocks  that  were  said  to 
be  haunted  by  fairies,  and  felt  sometimes  as  if  I  should  like  to 
lie  down  by  them  and  sleep,  and  be  carried  off  to  Fairy  Land, 
only  that  I  did  not  like  some  of  the  cantrips  which  used  now 
and  then  to  be  played  off  upon  visitors." 

Here  Scott  recounted,  in  graphic  style,  and  with  much 
humor,  a  little  story  which  used  to  be  current  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, of  an  honest  burgess  of  Selkirk,  who,  being  at  work 
upon  the  hill  of  Peatlaw,  fell  asleep  upon  one  of  these  ' '  fairy 
knowes,"  or  hillocks.  When  he  awoke,  he  rubbed  his  eyes 
and  gazed  about  him  with  astonishment,  for  he  was  in  the 
market-place  of  a  great  city,  with  a  crowd  of  people  bustling 
about  him,  not  one  of  whom  he  knew.  At  length  he  accosted 
a  bystander,  and  asked  him  the  name  of  the  place.  ' '  Hout 
man,"  replied  the  other,  "  are  ye  in  the  heart  o'  Glasgow,  and 
speer  the  name  of  it?"  The  poor  man  was  astonished,  and 
would  not  believe  either  ears  or  eyes ;  he  insisted  that  he  had 
lain  down  to  sleep  but  half  an  hour  before  on  the  Peatlaw, 
near  Selkirk.  He  came  well  nigh  being  taken  up  for  a  mad- 
man, when,  fortunately,  a  Selkirk  man  came  by,  who  knew 
him,  and  took  charge  of  him,  and  conducted  him  back  to  his 
native  place.  Here,  however,  he  was  likely  to  fare  no  better, 
when  he  spoke  of  having  been  whisked  in  his  sleep  from  the 
Peatlaw  to  Glasgow.  The  truth  of  the  matter  at  length  came 
out;  his  coat,  which  he  had  taken  off  when  at  work  on  the 
Peatlaw,  was  found  lying  near  a  ' '  fairy  knowe, "  and  his  bon- 
net, which  was  missing,  was  discovered  on  the  weathercock  of 
Lanark  steeple.  So  it  was  as  clear  as  day  that  he  had  been 
carried  through  the  air  by  the  fairies  while  he  was  sleeping, 
and  his  bonnet  had  been  blown  off  by  the  way. 

I  give  this  little  story  but  meagrely  from  a  scanty  memo- 
randum ;  Scott  has  related  it  in  somewhat  different  style  in  a 
note  to  one  of  his  poems ;  but  in  narration  these  anecdotes  de- 
rived their  chief  zest,  from  the  quiet  but  delightful  humor, 
the  bonhomie  with  which  he  seasoned  them,  and  the  sly  glance 
of  the  eye  from  under  his  bushy  eyebrows,  with  which  they 
were  accompanied. 


48  AnnnisFono. 

That  day  at  dinner,  we  had  Mr.  Laidlaw  and  his  wife,  and  a 
female  Mend  who  accompanied  them.  The  latter  was  a  very 
intelligent,  respectable  person,  abont  the  middle  age,  and  was 
treated  with  particular  attention  and  courtesy  by  Scott.  Our 
dinner  was  a  most  agreeable  one ;  for  the  guests  were  evidently 
cherished  visitors  to  the  house,  and  felt  that  they  were  apprc 
ciated. 

When  they  were  gone,  Scott  spoke  of  them  in  the  most, 
cordial  manner.  "I  wished  to  show  you,"  said  he,  "  some  of 
our  really  excellent,  plain  Scotch  people ;  not  fine  gentlemen 
and  ladies,  for  such  you  can  meet  everywhere,  and  they  are 
everywhere  the  same.  The  character  of  a  nation  is  not  to  be 
leamt  from  its  tine  folks." 

He  then  went  on  with  a  particular  eulogium  on  the  lady  who 
had  accompanied  the  Laidlaws.  SheAvas  the  daughter,  lie.  said, 
of  a  poor  country  clergyman,  who  had  died  in  debt,  and  left 
her  an  orphan  and  destitute.  Having  had  a  good  plain  educa- 
tion, she  immediately  set  up  a  child's  school,  and  had  soon  a 
numerous  flock  under  her  care,  by  which  she  earned  a  decent 
maintenance.     That,  howe^  not  her  main  object.     Her 

first  care  was  to  pay  off  her  father's  debts,  that  no  ill  word  or 
ill  will  might  rest  upon  his  memory. 

This,  by  dint  of  Scottish  economy,  backed  by  filial  reverence 
and  pride,  she  accomplished,  though  in  the  effort,  she  subjected 
herself  to  every  privation.  Not  content  with  this,  she  in  cer- 
tain instances  refused  to  take  pay  for  the  tuition  of  the  chil- 
dren of  some  of  her  neighbors,  who  had  befriended  her  father 
in  his  need,  and  had  since  fallen  into  poverty.  "In a  word," 
added  Scott,  "she  is  a  fine  old  Scotch  girl;  and  I  delight  in  her, 
more  than  in  many  a  fine  lady  I  have  known,  and  I  have  known 
many  of  the  finest. " 


It  is  time,  however,  to  draw  this  rambling  narrative  to  a 
close.  Several  days  were  passed  by  me,  in  the  way  I  have  at- 
tempted to  describe,  in  almost  constant,  familiar,  and  joyous 
conversation  with  Scott ;  it  was  as  if  I  were  admitted  to  a  social 
communion  with  Shakespeare,  for  it  was  with  one  of  a  kindred, 
if  not  equal  genius.  Every  night  I  retired  with  my  mind'  filled 
with  delightful  recollections  of  the  day,  and  every  morning  I 
rose  with  the  certainty  of  new  enjoyment.  The  days  thus 
spent,  I  shall  ever  look  back  to,  as  among  the  very  happiest 
of  my  fife ;  for  I  was  conscious  at  the  time  of  being  happy. 


ABB0T8FQRD.  49 

The  only  sad  moment  that  I  experienced  at  Abbotsford  was 
that  of  my  departure ;  but  it  was  cheered  with  the  prospect  of 
soon  returning;  for  I  had  promised,  after  making  a  tour  in  the 
Highlands,  to  come  and  pass  a  few  more  days  on  the  banks  of 
the  Tweed,  when  Scott  intended  to  invite  Hogg  the  poet  to  meet 
me.  I  took  a  kind  farewell  of  the  family,  with  each  of  whom 
I  had  been  highly  pleased.  If  I  have  refrained  from  dwelling 
particularly  on  their  several  characters,  and  giving  anecdotes 
of  them  individually,  it  is  because  I  consider  them  shielded  by 

|  the  sanctity  of  domestic  life;  Scott,  on  the  contrary,  belongs  to 
history.  As  he  accompanied  me  on  foot,  however,  to  a  small 
gate  on  the  confines  of  his  premises,  I  could  not  refrain]  from 

I  expressing  the  enjoyment  I  had  experienced  in  his  domestic 
circle,  and  passmg  some  warm  eulogiums  on  the  young  folks 
from  whom  I  had  just  parted.  I  shall  never  forget  his  reply. 
"  They  have  kind  hearts,"  said  he,  "and  that  is  the  main  point 

I  as  to  human  happiness.  They  love  one  another,  poor  things, 
which  is  every  thing  in  domestic  life.  The  best  wish  I  can 
make  you,  my  friend, "added  he,  laying  his  hand  upon  my 
shoulder.  ' '  is.  that  when  you  return  to  your  own  country,  you 
may  get  married,  and  have  a  family  of  young  bairns  about 
you.  If  you  are  happy,  there  they  are  to  share  your  happi- 
ness— and  if  you  are  otherwise — there  they  are  to  comfort 
you." 

By  this  time  we  had  reached  the  gate,  when  he  halted,  and 
took  my  hand.  "I  will  not  say  farewell,"  said  he,  "for  it  is 
always  a  painful  word,  but  I  will  say,  come  again.  When  you 
have  made  your  tour  to  the  Highlands,  come  here  and  give  me 
a  few  more  days — but  come  when  you  please,  you  will  always 
find  Abbotsford  open  to  you,  and  a  hearty  welcome. " 


I  have  thus  given,  in  a  rude  style,  my  main  recollections  of 
what  occurred  during  my  sojourn  at  Abbotsford,  and  I  feel 
mortified  that  I  can  give  but  such  meagre,  scattered,  and  color- 
less details  of  what  was  so  copious,  rich,  and  varied.  During 
several  days  that  I  passed  there  Scott  was  in  admirable  vein. 
From  early  morn  until  dinner  time  he  was  rambling  about, 
showing  me  the  neighborhood,  and  during  dinner  and  until 
late  at  night,  engaged  in  social  conversation.  No  time  was  re- 
served for  himself ;  he  seemed  as  if  his  only  occupation  was  to 
entertain  me ;  and  yet  I  was  almost  an  entire  stranger  to  him, 
one  of  whom  he  knew  nothing,  but  an  idle  book  I  had  written, 


50 


Minors  ford. 


and  which,  some  years  before,  had  amused  him.  But  such  wj 
Scott— he  appeared  to  have  nothing  to  do  but  lavish  his  time, 
attention,  and  conversation  on  those  around.  It  was  difficult 
to  imagine  what  time  he  found  to  write  those  volumes  that 
were  incessantly  issuing  from  the  press ;  all  of  which,  too,  wei 
of  a  nature  to  require  reading  and  research.  I  could  not  fine 
that  his  life  was  ever  otherwise  than  a  life  of  leisure  ard  hap- 
hazard recreation,  such  as  it  was  during  my  visit.  He  scarce 
ever  balked  a  party  of  pleasure,  or  a  sporting  excursion,  and 
rarely  pleaded  his  own  concerns  as  an  excuse  for  rejecting  thos 
of  others.  During  my  visit  I  heard  of  other  visitors  who  hi 
preceded  me,  and  who  must  have  kept  him  occupied  for  man} 
days,  and  I  have  had  an  opportunity  of  knowing  the  course  of 
his  daily  life  for  some  time  subsequently.  Not  long  after  m\ 
departure  from  Abbotsford,  my  friend  Wilkie  arrived  there, 
to  paint  a  picture  of  the  Scott  family.  He  found  the  house  ful" 
of  guests.  Scott's  whole  time  was  taken  up  in  riding  and  driv- 
ing about  the  country,  or  in  social  conversation  at  home, 
this  time,"  said  Wilkie  to  me,  "  I  did  not  presume  to  ask  Mr. 
Scott  to  sit  for  his  portrait,  for  I  saw  he  had  not  a  moment 
spare ;  I  waited  for  the  guests  to  go  away,  but  as  fast  as  one 
went  another  arrived,  and  so  it  continued  for  several  days,  an( 
with  each  set  he  was  completely  occupied.  At  length  all  went 
off,  and  we  were  quiet.  I  thought,  however,  Mr.  Scott  will  no^ 
shut  himself  up  among  his  books  and  papers,  for  he  has  to  make 
up  for  lost  time ;  it  won't  do  for  me  to  ask  him  now  to  sit  foi 
his  picture.  Laidlaw,  who  managed  his  estate,  came  in,  anc 
Scott  turned  to  him,  as  I  supposed,  to  consult  about  business. 
'Laidlaw,'  said  he,  'to-morrow  morning  we'll  go  across  the 
water  and  take  the  dogs  with  us— there's  a  place  where  I  thii 
we  shall  be  able  to  find  a  hare.' 

"In  short,"  added  Wilkie,  "I  found  that  instead  of  business, 
he  was  thinking  only  of  amusement,  as  if  he  had  nothing 
the  world  to  occupy  him ;  so  I  no  longer  feared  to  intrude  upoi 
him." 

The  conversation  of  Scott  was  frank,  hearty,   picturesque, 
and  dramatic.     During  the  time  of  my  visit  he  inclined  to  tl 
comic  rather  than  the  grave,  in  his  anecdotes  and  stories,  anc 
such,  I  was  told,  was  his  general  inclination.     He  relished 
joke,  or  a  trait  of  humor  in  social  intercourse,  and  laughe 
with  right  good  will.     He  talked  not  for  effect  nor  display,  but 
from  the  flow  of  his  spirits,  the  stores  of  his  memory,  and  the 
vigor  of  his  imagination.    He  had  a  natural  turn  for  narratioi 


ABBOT^FORD.  51 

and  his  narratives  and  descriptions  were  without  effort,  yet 
wonderfully  graphic.  He  placed  the  scene  before  you  like  a 
picture ;  he  gave  the  dialogue  with  the  appropriate  dialect  or 
peculiarities,  and  described  the  appearance  and  characters  of 
his  personages  with  that  spirit  and  felicity  evinced  in  his 
writings.  Indeed,  his  conversation  reminded  me  continually 
of  his  novels;  and  it  seemed  to  me,  that  during  the  whole 
time  I  was  with  him,  he  talked  enough  to  fill  volumes,  and 
that  they  could  not  have  been  filled  more  delightfully. 

He  was  as  good  a  listener  as  talker,  appreciating  everything 
that  others  said,  however  humble  might  be  their  rank  or  pre- 
tensions, and  was  quick  to  testify  his  perception  of  any  point 
in  their  discourse.  He  arrogated  nothing  to  himself,  but  was 
perfectly  unassuming  and  unpretending,  entering  with  heart 
and  soul  into  the  business,  or  pleasure,  or,  I  had  almost  said, 
folly,  of  the  hour  and  the  company.  No  one's  concerns,  no 
one's  thoughts,  no  one's  opinions,  no  one's  tastes  and  pleasures 
seemed  beneath  him.  He  made  himself  so  thoroughly  the 
companion  of  those  with  whom  he  happened  to  be,  that  they 
forgot  for  a  time  his  vast  superiority,  and  only  recollected  and 
wondered,  when  all  was  over,  that  it  was  Scott  with  whom 
they  had  been  on  such  familiar  terms,  and  in  whose  society 
they  had  felt  so  perfectly  at  their  ease. 

It  was  delightful  to  observe  the  generous  spirit  in  which  he 
spoke  of  all  his  literary  contemporaries,  quoting  the  beauties 
of  their  works,  and  this,  too,  with  respect  to  persons  with 
whom  he  might  have  been  supposed  to  be  at  variance  in  litera- 
ture or  politics.  Jeffrey,  it  was  thought,  had  ruffled  his  plumes 
in  one  of  his  reviews,  yet  Scott  spoke  of  him  in  terms  of  high 
and  warm  eulogy,  both  as  an  author  and  as  a  man. 

His  humor  in  conversation,  as  in  his  works,  was  genial  and 
free  from  all  causticity.  He  had  a  quick  perception  of  faults 
and  foibles,  but  he  looked  upon  poor  human  nature  with  an  in- 
dulgent eye,  relishing  what  was  good  and  pleasant,  tolerating 
what  was  frail,  and  pitying  what  was  evil.  Itis  this  beneficent 
spirit  which  gives  such  an  air  of  bonhomie  to  Scott's  humor 
throughout  all  his  works.  He  played  with  the  foibles  and 
errors  of  his  fellow  beings,  and  presented  them  in  a  thousand 
whimsical  and  characteristic  lights,  but  the  kindness  and  gen- 
erosity of  his  nature  would  not  allow  him  to  be  a  satirist.  I  do 
not  recollect  a  sneer  throughout  his  conversation  any  inore 
than  there  is  throughout  his  works. 

Such  is  a  rough  sketch  of  Scott,  as  1  saw  him  in  private  life. 


0^  ABB0TSF0RI). 

not  merely  at  the  time  of  the  visit  here  narrated,  but  in  tho 
casual  intercourse  of  subsequent  years.     Of  his  public  charac-  » 
ter  and  merits,  all  the  world  can  judge.     His  works  have  incor-  I 
porated  themselves  with  the  thoughts  and  concerns  of  thel 
whole  civilized  world,  for  a  quarter  of  a  century,  and  have  had.  1 
a  controlling  influence  over  the  age  in  which  he  lived.     But  *1 
when  did  a   human  being  ever  exercise  an  influence  more  J 
salutary  and  benignant?    Who  is  there  that,  on  looking  back  j 
over  a  great  portion  of  his  life,  does  not  find  the  genius  of  1 
Scott  administering  to  his  pleasures,  beguiling  his  cares,  and  1 
soothing  his  lonely  Borrows?     Who  does  not  still  regard  his  ] 
works  as  a  treasury  of  pure  enjoyment,  an  armory  to  which  to 
resort  in  time  of  need,  to  find  weapons  with  which  to  fight  off 
the  evils  and  the  griefs  of  life?    For  my  own  part,  in  periods 
of  dejection,  I  have  hailed  the  announcement  of  a  new  work 
from  his  pen  as  an  earnest  of  certain  pleasure  in  store  for  me, 
and  have  looked  forward  to  it  as  a  traveller  in  a  waste  looks  to  3 
a  green  spot  at  a  distance,  where  he  feels  assured  of  solace  and 
refreshment.     When  I  consider  how  much  he  has  thus  contri- 
buted to  the  better  hours  of  my  past  existence,  and  how  inde- 
pendent his  works  still  make  me,  at  times,  of  all  the  world  for 
my  enjoyment,  I  bless  my  stars  that  cast  my  lot  in  his  days, 
to  be  thus  cheered  and  gladdened  by  the  outpourings  of  his 
genius.     I  consider  it  one  of  the  greatest  advantages  that  I 
have  derived  from  my  literary  career,  that  it  has  elevated  me 
into  genial  communion  with  such  a  spirit ;  and  as  a  tribute  of 
gratitude  for  Ins  friendship,  and  veneration  for  his  memory,  I  Tj 
cast  this  humble  stone  upon  his  caim,   which  will  soon,  I 
trust,  be  piled  aloft  with  the  contributions  of  abler  hands. 


NEWSTEAD    ABBE"Y 


NEWSTEAD    ABBEY. 


HISTORICAL  NOTICE. 

0 

Being  about  to  give  a  few  sketches  taken  during  a  three 
weeks'  sojourn  in  the  ancestral  mansion  of  the  late  Lord 
Byron,  I  think  it  proper  to  premise  some  brief  particulars 
concerning  its  history. 

Newstead  Abbey  is  one  of  the  finest  specimens  in  existence  of 
those  quaint  and  romantic  piles,  half  castle,  half  convent,  which 
remain  as  monuments  of  the  olden  times  of  England.  It  stands, 
too,  in  the  midst  of  a  legendary  neighborhood;  being  in  the 
heart  of  Sherwood  Forest,  and  surrounded  by  the  haunts  of 
Robin  Hood  and  his  band  of  outlaws,  so  famous  in  ancient 
ballad  and  nursery  tale.  It  is  true,  the  forest  scarcely  exists 
but  in  name,  and  the  tract  of  country  over  which  it  once  ex- 
tended its  broad  solitudes  and  shades,  is  now  an  open  and 
smiling  region,  cultivated  with  parks  and  farms,  and  en- 
livened with  villages. 

Newstead,  which  probably  once  exerted  a  monastic  sway  over 
this  region,  and  controlled  the  consciences  of  the*  rude  fores- 
ters, was  originally  a  priory,  founded  in  the  latter  part  of  the 
twelfth  century,  by  Henry  II.,  at  the  time  when  he  sought,  by 
building  of  shrines  and  convents,  and  by  other  acts  of  external 
piety,  to  expiate  the  murder  of  Thomas  a  Becket.  The  priory 
was  dedicated  to  God  and  the  Virgin,  and  was  inhabited  by  a 
fraternity  of  canons  regular  of  St.  Augustine.  This  order 
was  originally  simple  ami  al  stemious  in  its  mode  of  living, 
and  exemplary  in  its  condud  ;  but  it  would  seem  that  it  grad- 
ually lapsed  into  those  abuses  which  disgraced  too  many  of 
the  wealthy  monastic  establishments ;  for  there  are  documents 
am-jng  its  archives  which  intimate  the  prevalence  of  gross  mis- 
rule and  dissolute  sensuality  among  its  members. 


T)6  WBTEAD  ABBEY, 

At  the  time  of  the  dissolution  of  the  convents  during  the 
reign  of  Henry  VIII. ,  Newstead  underwent  a  sudden  reverse, 
being  given,  with  the  neighboring  manor  and  rectory  of  Papel- 
wick,  to  Sir  John  Byron,  Steward  of  Manchester  and  Eochdale, 
and  Lieutenant  of  Sherwood  Forest.  This  ancient  family 
worthy  figures  in  the  traditions  of  the  Abbey,  and  in  the  ghost 
stories  with  which  it  abounds,  under  the  quaint  and  graphic 
appellation  of  "  Sir  John  Byron  the  Little,  with  the  great 
Beard."  He  converted  the  saintly  edifice  into  a  castellated 
dwelling,  making  it  his  favorite  residence  and  the  seat  of  his 
forest  jurisdiction. 

The  Byron  family  being  subsequently  ennobled  by  a  baronial 
title,  and  enriched  by  various  possessions,  maintained  great 
style  and  retinue  at  Newstead.  The  proud  edifice  partook, 
however,  of  the  vicissitudes  of  the  times,  and  Lord  Byron,  in 
one  of  his  poems,  represents  it  as  alternately  the  scene  of 
lordly  wassailing  and  of  civil  war: 

"  Hark,  how  the  hall  resounding  to  the  strain, 
Shakes  with  the  martial  music's  novel  din! 
The  heralds  of  a  warrior's  haughty  reign, 
High  crested  banners  wave  thy  walls  within. 

u  Of  changing  sentinels  the  distant  hum, 

The  mirth  of  feasts,  the  clang  of  burnish'd  arms, 
The  braying  trumpet,  and  the  hoarser  drum, 
Unite  in  concert  with  increased  alarms." 

About  the  middle  of  the  last  century,  the  Abbey  came  into 
the  possession  of  another  noted  character,  who  makes  no  less 
figure  in  its  shadowy  traditions  than  Sir  John  the  Little  with 
the  great  Beard.  This  was  the  grand-uncle  of  the  poet,  fami- 
liarly known  among  the  gossiping  chroniclers  of  the  Abbey  as 
"the  Wicked  Lord  Byron."  He  is  represented  as  a  man  of 
irritable  passions  and  vindictive  temper,  in  the  indulgence  of 
which  an  incident  occurred  which  gave  a  turn  to  his  whole  char- 
acter and  life,  and  in  some  measure  affected  the  fortunes  of 
the  Abbey.  In  his  neighborhood  lived  his  kinsman  and  friend, 
Mr.  Chaworth,  proprietor  of  Annesley  Hall.  Being  together  in 
London  in  1765,  in  a  chamber  of  the  Star  and  Garter  tavern  in 
Pall  Mall,  a  quarrel  rose  between  them.  Byron  insisted  upon 
settling  it  upon  the  spot  by  single  combat.  They  fought  with- 
out seconds,  by  the  dim  light  of  a  candle,  and  Mr.  Chaworth, 
although  the  most  expert  swordsman,  received  a  mortal 
wound.  With  his  dying  breath  he  related  such  particulars 
the  contest  as  induced  the  coroner's  jury  to  return  a  verdict 


HISTORICAL  NOTICE.  57 

of  wilful  murder.  Lord  Byron  was  sent  to  the  Tower,  and 
subsequently  tried  before  the  House  of  Peers,  where  an  ulti- 
mate verdict  was  given  of  manslaughter. 

He  retired  after  this  to  the  Abbey,  where  he  shut  himself  up 
to  brood  over  his  disgraces ;  grew  gloomy,  morose,  and  fantas- 
tical, and  indulged  in  fits  of  passion  and  caprice,  that  made  him 
the  theme  of  rural  wonder  and  scandal.  No  tale  was  too  wild 
or  too  monstrous  for  vulgar  belief.  Like  his  successor  the 
poet,  he  was  accused  of  all  kinds  of  vagaries  and  wickedness. 
Lt  was  said  that  he  always  went  armed,  as  if  prepared  to 
commit  murder  on  the  least  provocation.  At  one  time,  when  a 
gentleman  of  his  neighborhood  was  to  dine  tete  a  tete  with  him, 
it  is  said  a  brace  of  pistols  were  gravely  laid  with  the  knives 
and  forks  upon  the  table,  as  part  of  the  regular  table  furniture, 
and  implements  that  might  be  needed  in  the  course  of  the  re- 
past. Another  rumor  states  that  being  exasperated  at  his  coach- 
man for  disobedience  to  orders,  he  shot  him  on  the  spot,  threw 
his  body  into  the  coach  where  Lady  Byron  was  seated,  and, 
mounting  the  box,  officiated  in  his  stead.  At  another  time, 
according  to  the  same  vulgar  rumors,  he  threw  her  ladyship 
into  the  lake  in  front  of  the  Abbey,  where  she  would  have  been 
drowned  but  for  the  timely  aid  of  the  gardener.  These  stories 
are  doubtless  exaggerations  of  trivial  incidents  which  may 
have  occurred;  but  it  is  certain  that  the  wayward  passions 
of  this  unhappy  man  caused  a  separation  from  his  wife,  and 
finally  spread  a  solitude  around  him.  Being  displeased  at  the 
marriage  of  his  son  and  heir,  he  displayed  an  inveterate  malig- 
nity toward  him.  Not  being  able  to  cut  off  his  succession  to 
the  Abbey  estate,  which  descended  to  him  by  entail,  he  endeav- 
ored to  injure  it  as  much  as  possible,  so  that  it  might  come  a 
mere  wreck  into  his  hands.  For  this  purpose  he  suffered  the 
Abbey  to  fall  out  of  repair,  and  everything  to  go  to  waste 
about  it,  and  cut  down  all  the  timber  on  the  estate,  laying  low 
many  a  tract  of  old  Sherwood  Forest,  so  that  the  Abbey  lands 
lay  stripped  and  bare  of  all  their  ancient  honors.  He  was  baf- 
fled in  his  unnatural  revenge  by  the  premature  death  of  his  son, 
and  passed  the  remainder  of  his  days  in  his  deserted  and  dilapi- 
dated halls,  a  gloomy  misanthrope,  brooding  amidst  the  scenes 
he  had  laid  desolate. 

His  wayward  humors  drove  from  him  all  neighborly  society, 
and  for  a  part  of  the  time  he  was  almost  without  domestics. 
In  his  misanthropic  mood,  when  at  variance  with  all  human 
kind,  he  took  to  feeding  crickets,  so  that  in  process  of  time  the 


58  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY. 

Abbey  was  overrun  with  them,  and  its  lonely  halls  made  more 
lonely  at  night  by  their  monotonous  music.  Tradition  adds 
that,  at  his  death,  the  crickets  seemed  aware  that  they  had  lost 
theis  patron  and  protector,  for  they  one  and  all  packed  up  bag 
and  baggage,  and  left  the  Abbey,  trooping  across  its  courts  and 
corridors  in  all  directions. 

The  death  of  the  ll  Old  Lord,"  or  "  The  Wicked  Lord  Byron," 
for  he  is  known  by  both  appellations,  occurred  in  1798 ;  and  the 
Abbey  then  passed  into  the  possession  of  the  poet.  The  latter 
was  but  eleven  years  of  age,  and  living  in  humble  style  with 
his  mother  in  Scotland.  They  came  soon  after  to  England,  to 
take  possession.  Moore  gives  a  simple  but  striking  anecdote  of 
the  first  arrival  of  the  poet  at  the  domains  of  his  ancestors. 

They  had  arrived  at  the  Newstead  toll-bar,  and  saw  the 
woods  of  the  Abbey  stretching  out  to  receive  them,  when  Mrs. 
Byron,  affecting  to  be  ignorant  of  the  place,  asked  the  woman 
of  the  toll-house  to  whom  that  seat  belonged?  She  was  told 
that  the  owner  of  it,  Lord  Byron,  had  been  some  months  dead. 
"And  who  is  the  next  heir?"  asked  the  proud  and  happy 
mother.  "  They  say,"  answered  the  old  woman,  "it  is  a  little 
boy  who  lives  at  Aberdeen."  "  And  this  is  he,  bless  him!"  ex- 
claimed the  nurse,  no  longer  able  to  contain  herself,  and  turn- 
ing to  kiss  with  delight  the  young  lord  who  was  seated  on  her 
lap.* 

During  Lord  Byron's  minority,  the  Abbey  was  let  to  Lord 
Grey  de  Ruthen,  but  the  poet  visited  it  occasionally  during  the 
Harrow  vacations,  when  he  resided  with  his  mother  at  lodgings 
in  Nottingham.  It  was  treated  little  better  by  its  present  ten- 
ant, than  by  the  old  lord  who  preceded  him ;  so  that  when,  in 
the  autumn  of  1808,  Lord  Byron  took  up  his  abode  there,  it  was 
in  a  ruinous  condition.  The  following  lines  from  his  own  pen 
may  give  some  idea  of  its  condition : 

"  Through  thy  battlements,  Newstead.  the  hollow  winds  whistle, 
Thou,  the  hall  of  my  fathers,  art  gone  to  decay ; 
In  thy  once  smiling  garden,  the  hemlock  and  thistle 
Have  choked  up  the  rose  which  once  bloomed  in  the  way. 

"  Of  the  mail-covered  barons  who.  proudly,  to  battle 
Led  thy  vassals  from  Europe  to  Palestine's  plain, 
The  escutcheon  and  shield,  which  with  every  wind  rattle, 
Are  the  only  sad  vestiges  now  that  remain."t 


*  Moore's  Life  of  Lord  Byron. 

f  Lines  on  leaving  Newstead  Abbey. 


HISTORICAL  NOTICE.  59 

In  another  poem  he  expresses  the  melancholy  feeling  with 
which  he  took  possession  of  his  ancestral  mansion : 

"  Newstead !  what  saddening  scene  of  change  is  thine, 
Thy  yawning  arch  betokens  sure  decaj': 
The  last  and  youngest  of  a  noble  line, 
Now  holds  thy  mouldering  turrets  iu  his  sway. 

"  Deserted  now,  he  scans  thy  gray-worn  towers, 
Thy  vaults,  where  dead  of  feudal  ages  sleep, 
Thy  cloisters,  pervious  to  the  wintry  showers, 
These— these  he  views,  and  views  them  but  to  weep. 

"  Yet  he  prefers  thee  to  the  gilded  domes, 
Or  gewgaw  grottoes  of  the  vainly  great ; 
Yet  lingers  mid  thy  damp  and  mossy  tombs, 
Nor  breathes  a  murmur  "gainst  the  will  of  fate."  • 

Lord  Byron  had  not  fortune  sufficient  to  put  the  pile  in  ex- 
tensive repair,  nor  to  maintain  anything  like  the  state  of  his 
ancestors.  He  restored  some  of  the  apartments,  so  as  to 
furnish  his  mother  with  a  comfortable  habitation,  and  fitted  up 
a  quaint  study  for  himself,  in  winch,  among  books  and  bus+s, 
and  other  library  furniture,  were  two  skulls  of  the  ancient 
friars,  grinning  on  each  side  of  an  antique  cross.  One  of  his 
gay  companions  gives  a  picture  of  Newstead  when  thus  repaired, 
and  the  picture  is  sufficiently  desolate. 

' '  There  are  two  tiers  of  cloisters,  with  a  variety  of  cells  and 
rooms  about  them,  wluch,  though  not  inhabited,  nor  in  an  in- 
habitable state,  might  easily  be  made  so;  and  many  of  the 
original  rooms,  among  which  is  a  fine  stone  hall,  are  still  in  use. 
Of  the  Abbey  church,  one  end  only  remains;  and  the  old 
kitchen,  with  a  long  range  of  apartments,  is  reduced  to  a 
heap  of  rubbish.  Leading  from  the  Abbey  to  the  modern  part 
of  the  habitation  is  a  noble  room,  seventy  feet  in  length,  and 
twenty-three  in  breadth;  but  every  part  of  the  house  displays 
neglect  and  decay,  save  those  which  the  present  lord  has  lately 
fitted  up."t 

Even  the  repairs  thus  made  were  but  of  transient  benefit,  for 
the  roof  being  left  in  its  dilapidated  state,  the  rain  soon  pene- 
trated into  the  apartments  which  Lord  Byron  had  restored  and 
decorated,  and  in  a  few  years  rendered  them  almost  as  desolate 
as  the  rest  of  the  Abbey. 

Still  he  felt  a  pride  in  the  ruinous  old  edifice ;  its  very  dreary 
and  dismantled  state,  addressed  itself  to  his  poetical  imagina- 

*  Elegy  on  Newstead  Abbey. 

t  Letter  of  the  late  Charles  Skinner  Mathews,  Esq. 


60  NEWSTKAD  ABBEY 

tion,  and  to  that  love  of  the  melancholy  and  the  grand  which 
is  evinced  in  all  his  writings.  "Come  what  may,"  said  he  in 
one  of  his  letters,  "Newstead  and  I  stand  or  fall  together.  I 
have  now  lived  on  the  spot.  I  have  fixed  my  heart  upon  it, 
and  no  pressure,  present  or  future,  shall  induce  me  to  barter 
the  last  vestige  of  our  inheritance.  I  have  that  pride  within 
me  which  will  enable  me  to  support  difficulties:  could  I  obtain 
in  exchange  for  Newstead  Abbey,  the  first  fortune  in  the  coun- 
try, I  would  reject  the  proposition. " 

His  residence  at  the  Abbey,  however,  was  fitful  and  uncer- 
tain. He  passed  occasional  portions  of  time  there,  sometimes 
studiously  and  alone,  oftener  idly  and  recklessly,  and  occasion- 
ally with  young  and  gay  companions,  in  riot  and  revelry,  and 
the  indulgence  of  all  kinds  of  mad  caprice.  The  Abbey  was  by 
no  means  benefited  by  these  roystering  inmates,  who  some- 
times played  off  monkish  mummeries  about  the  cloisters,  at 
other  times  turned  the  state  chambers  into  schools  for  boxing 
and  single-stick,  and  shot  pistols  in  the  great  hall.  The  coun- 
try people  of  the  neighborhood  were  as  much  puzzled  by  these 
madcap  vagaries  of  the  new  incumbent,  as  by  the  gloomier 
habits  of  the  "old  lord,"  and  began  to  think  that  madness  was 
inherent  in  the  Byron  race,  or  that  some  wayward  star  ruled 
over  the  Abbey. 

It  is  needless  to  enter  into  a  detail  of  the  circumstances 
which  led  his  Lordship  to  vsell  his  ancestral  estate,  notwith- 
standing the  partial  predilections  and  hereditary  feeling  which 
he  had  so  eloquently  expressed.  Fortunately,  it  fell  into  the 
hands  of  a  man  who  possessed  something  of  a  poetical  tempera- 
ment, and  who  cherished  an  enthusiastic  admiration  for  Lord 
.Byron.  Colonel  (at  that  time  Major)  Wildman  had  been  a 
schoolmate  of  the  poet,  and  sat  with  him  on  the  same  form  at 
Harrow.  He  had  subsequently  distinguished  himself  in  the 
war  of  the  Peninsula,  and  at  the  battle  of  Waterloo,  and  it  was 
a  great  consolation  to  Lord  Byron,  in  parting  with  his  family 
estate,  to  know  that  it  would  be  held  by  one  capable  of  restor- 
ing its  faded  glories,  and  who  would  respect  and  preserve  all 
the  monuments  and  memorials  of  his  line.* 


*  The  following  letter,  written  in  the  course  of  the  transfer  of  the  estate,  has 
never  been  published: — 

Venice,  November  18,  1818. 
My  Dear  Wildman, 

Mr.  Hanson  is  on  the  eve  of  his  return,  so  that  I  have  only  time  to  return  a  few 
Inadequate  thanks  for  your  very  kind  letter.    I  should  regret  to  trouble  you  with 


HISTORICAL  NOTICE.  61 

The  confidence  of  Lord  Byron  in  the  good  feeling  and  good 
taste  of  Colonel  Wildman  has  been  justified  by  the  event. 
Under  his  judicious  eye  and  munificent  hand  the  venerable 
and  romantic  pile  has  risen  from  its  ruins  in  all  its  old  monastic 
and  baronial  splendor,  and  additions  have  been  made  to  it  in 
perfect  conformity  of  style.  The  groves  and  forests  have  been 
replanted;  the  lakes  and  fish-ponds  cleaned  out,  and  the  gar- 
dens rescued  from  the  ' '  hemlock  and  thistle, "  and  restored  to 
their  pristine  and  dignified  formality. 

The  farms  on  the  estate  have  been  put  in  complete  order,  new 
farm-houses  built  of  stone,  in  the  picturesque  and  comfortable 
style  of  the  old  English  granges ;  the  hereditary  tenants  secured 
in  their  paternal  homes,  and  treated  with  the  most  considerate 
indulgence ;  everything,  in  a  word,  gives  happy  indications  of 
a  liberal  and  beneficent  landlord. 

What  most,  however,  will  interest  the  visitors  to  the  Abbey 
in  favor  of  its  present  occupant,  is  the  reverential  care  with 
which  he  has  preserved  and  renovated  every  monument  and 
relic  of  the  Byron  family,  and  every  object  in  anywise  con- 
nected with  the  memory  of  the  poet.  Eighty  thousand  pounds 
have  already  been  expended  upon  the  venerable  pile,  yet  the 
work  is  still  going  on,  and  Newstead  promises  to  realize  the 
hope  faintly  breathed  by  the  poet  when  bidding  it  a  melancholy 
farewell — 

"Haply  thy  sun  emerging,  yet  may  shine. 
Thee  to  irradiate  with  meridian  ray; 
Hours  splendid  as  the  past  may  still  be  thine, 
And  bless  thy  future,  as  thy  former  day."- 


any  requests  of  mine,  in  regard  to  the  preservation  of  any  signs  of  my  family,  which 
may  still  exist  at  Newstead.  and  leave  everything  of  that  kind  to  your  own  feelings, 
present  or  future,  upon  the  subject.  The  portrait  which  you  flatter  me  by  desiring, 
would  not  be  worth  to  you  your  trouble  and  expense  of  such  an  expedition,  but 
you  may  rely  upon  having  the  very  first  that  may  be  painted,  and  which  may  seem 
worth  your  acceptance. 

I  trust  that  Xewstead  will,  being  yours,  remain  so,  and  that  it  may  see  you  as 
happy,  as  1  am  very  sure  that  you  will  make  your  dependents.  With  regard  to 
myself,  you  may  be  sure  that  whether  in  the  fourth  or  fifth,  or  sixtli  form  at  Har- 
row, or  in  the  fluctuations  of  after  life,  f  shall  always  remember  with  regard  my 
old  schoolfellow— fellow  monitor,  and  friend,  and  recognize  with  respect  the  gal- 
lant soldier,  who,  with  all  the  advantages  Of  fortune  and  allurements  of  youth  to  a 
life  of  pleasure,  devoted  himself  to  duties  of  a  nobler  order,  and  will  receive  his 
reward  iu  the  esteem  aud  admiration  of  his  country. 

Ever  yours  most  truly  aud  affectionately, 

BYRON. 


62  "  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY. 


ARRIVAL  AT  THE  ABBEY. 

I  had  been  passing  a  merry  Christmas  in  the  good  old  style 
at  Barlboro'  Hall,  a  venerable  family  mansion  in  Derbyshire, 
and  set  off  to  finish  the  holidays  with  the  hospitable  proprietor 
of  Newstead  Abbey.  A  drive  of  seventeen  miles  through  a 
pleasant  country,  part  of  it  the  storied  region  of  Sherwood 
Forest,  brought  me  to  the  gate  of  Newstead  Park.  The  aspect 
of  the  park  was  by  no  means  imposing,  the  fine  old  trees  that 
once  adorned  it  having  been  laid  low  by  Lord  Byron's  wayward 
predecessor. 

Entering  the  gate,  the  postchaise  rolled  heavily  along  a  sandy 
road,  between  naked  declivities,  gradually  descending  into  one 
of  those  gentle  and  sheltered  valleys,  in  which  the  sleek  monks 
of  old  loved  to  nestle  themselves.  Here  a  sweep  of  the  road 
r<  >und  an  angle  of  a  garden  wall  brought  us  full  in  front  of  the 
venerable  edifice,  embosomed  in  the  valley,  with  a  beautiful 
sheet  of  water  spreading  out  before  it. 

The  irregular  gray  pile,  of  motley  architecture,  answered  to 
the  description  given  by  Lord  Byron: 

'•  An  old.  old  monastery  once,  and  now 
Still  older  mansion,  of  a  rich  and  rare 
Mixed  Gothic" 

One  end  was  fortified  by  a  castellated  tower,  bespeaking  the 
baronial  and  warlike  days  of  the  edifice ;  the  other  end  main- 
tained its  primitive  monastic  character.  A  ruined  chapel, 
flanked  by  a  solemn  grove,  still  reared  its  front  entire.  It  is 
true,  the  threshold  of  the  once  frequented  portal  was  grass- 
grown,  and  the  great  lancet  window,  once  glorious  with  painted 
glass,  was  now  entwined  and  overhung  with  ivy ;  but  the  old 
convent  cross  still  braved  both  time  and  tempest  on  the  pinna- 
cle of  the  chapel,  and  below,  the  blessed  effigies  of  the  Virgin 
and  child,  sculptured  in  gray  stone,  remained  uninjured  in 
their  niche,  giving  a  sanctified  aspect  to  the  pile.* 

A  flight  of  rooks,  tenants  of  the  adjacent  grove,  were  hover- 
ing about  the  nun,  and  balancing  themselves  upon  every  airy 


' in  a  higher  niche,  alone,  but  erown'd, 

The  Virgin  Mother  of  the  God-born  child 
With  her  son  in  her  blessed  arms,  looked  round, 

Spared  by  some  chance,  when  all  beside  was  spoil'd: 
She  made  the  earth  below  seem  holy  ground."— Don  Jwan,  Canto  IIL 


'ARRIVAL  AT  THE  ABBEY.  63 

projection,  and  looked  down  with  curious  eye  and  cawed  as 
the  postchaise  rattled  along  below. 

The  chamberlain  of  the  Abbey,  a  most  decorous  personage, 
dressed  in  black,  received  us  at  the  portal.  Here,  too,  we 
encountered  a  memento  of  Lord  Byron,  a  great  black  and 
white  Newfoundland  dog,  that  had  accompanied  his  remains 
from  Greece.  He  was  descended  from  the  famous  Boatswain, 
and  inherited  his  generous  qualities.  He  was  a  cherished  in- 
mate of  the  Abbey,  and  honored  and  caressed  by  every  visitor. 
Conducted  by  the  chamberlain,  and  followed  by  the  dog,  who 
assisted  in  doing  the  honors  of  the  house,  we  passed  through  a 
long  low  vaulted  hall,  supported  by  massive  Gothic  arches,  and 
not  a  little  resembling  the  crypt  of  a  cathedral,  being  the  base- 
ment story  of  the  Abbey. 

From  this  we  ascended  a  stone  staircase,  at  the  head  of  which 
a  pair  of  folding  doors  admitted  us  into  a  broad  corridor  that 
ran  round  the  interior  of  the  Abbey.  The  windows  of  the  cor- 
ridor looked  into  a  quadrangular  grass-grown  court,  forming  the 
hollow  centre  of  the  pile.  In  the  midst  of  it  rose  a  lofty  and 
fantastic  fountain,  wrought  of  the  same  gray  stone  as  the  main 
edifice,  and  which  has  been  well  described  by  Lord  Byron. 

"Amidst  the  court  a  Gothic  fountain  play'd, 

Symmetrical,  but  deck*d  with  carvings  quaint, 
Strange  faces,  like  to  men  in  masquerade, 

And  here  perhaps  a  monster,  there  a  saint : 
The  spring  rush'd  through  grim  mouths  of  granite  made, 

And  sparkled  into  basins,  where  it  spent 
Its  little  torrent  in  a  thousand  bubbles, 
Like  man's  vain  glory,  and  his  vainer  troubles.1  "* 

Around  this  quadrangle  were  low  vaulted  cloisters,  with 
Gothic  arches,  once  the  secluded  walks  of  the  monks :  the  cor- 
ridor along  which  we  were  passing  was  built  above  these  clois- 
ters, and  their  hollow  arches  seemed  to  reverberate  every  foot- 
fall. Everything  thus  far  had  a  solemn  monastic  air ;  but,  on 
arriving  at  an  angle  of  the  corridor,  the  eye,  glancing  along  a 
shadowy  gallery,  caught  a  sight  of  two  dark  figures  in  plate 
armor,  with  closed  visors,  bucklers  braced,  and  swords  drawn, 
standing  motionless  against  the  wall.  They  seemed  two  phan- 
toms of  the  chivalrous  era  of  the  Abbey. 

Here  the  chamberlain,  throwing  open  a  folding  door,  ushered 
us  at  once  into  a  spacious  and  lofty  saloon,  which  offered  a 
brilliant  contrast  to  the  quaint  and  sombre  apartments  we  had 


*Don  Juan,  Canto  III. 


64 


NEW8TEAD  ABBEY. 


traversed.  It  was  elegantly  furnished,  and  the  Avails  hung 
with  paintings,  yet  something  of  its  original  architecture  had 
been  preserved  and  blended  with  modern  embellishments. 
There  were  the  stone-shafted  casements  and  the  deep  bow- 
window  of  former  times.  The  carved  and  panelled  wood-work 
of  the  lofty  ceiling  had  likewise  been  carefully  restored,  and 
its  Gothic  and  grotesque  devices  painted  and  gilded  in  their 
ancient  style. 

Here,  too,  were  emblems  of  the  former  and  latter  days  of  the 
Abbey,  in  the  effigies  of  the  first  and  last  of  the  Byron  line  that 
held  sway  over  its  destinies.  At  the  upper  end  of  the  saloon, 
above  the  door,  the  dark  Gothic  portrait  of  "  Sir  John  Byron 
the  Little  with  the  great  Beard,"  looked  grimly  down  from  his 
canvas,  while,  at  the  opposite  end,  a  white  marble  bust  of  the 
got  ins  loci,  the  noble  poet,  shone  conspicuously  from  its 
pedestal. 

The  whole  air  and  style  of  the  apartment  partook  more  of 
the  palace  than  the  monastery,  and  its  windows  looked  forth 
on  a  suitable  prospect,  composed  of  beautiful  groves,  smooth 
verdant  lawns,  and  silver  sheets  of  water.  Below  the  windows 
was  a  small  flower-garden,  inclosed  by  stone  balustrades,  on 
which  were  stately  peacocks,  sunning  themselves  and  display- 
ing then-  plumage.  About  the  grass-plots  in  front,  were  gay 
cock  pheasants,  and  plump  partridges,  and  nimble-footed  water 
hens,  feeding  almost  in  perfect  security. 

Such  was  the  medley  of  objects  presented  to  the  eye  on  first 
visiting  the  Abbey,  and  I  found  the  interior  fully  to  answer 
the  description  of  the  poet — 

"The  mansion's  self  was  vast  and  venerable, 

With  more  of  the  monastic  than  lias  been 
Elsewhere  preserved;  the  cloisters  still  were  stable, 

The  cells,  too,  and  refectory,  I  ween; 
An  exquisite  small  chapel  had  been  able, 

Still  unimpair'd,  to  decorate  the  scene; 
The  rest  had  been  reformed,  replaced,  or  sunk, 
And  spoke  more  of  the  friar  than  the  monk. 

"  Huge  halls,  long  galleries,  spacious  chambers,  joined 
By  no  quite  lawful  marriage  of  the  arts, 
Might  shock  a  connoisseur:  but  when  combined 

Formed  a  whole,  which,  irregular  in  parts, 
Yet  left  a  grand  impression  on  the  mind, 
At  least  of  those  whose  eyes  were  in  their  hearts." 


It  is  not  my  intention  to  lay  open  the  scenes  of  domestic  life 
at  the  Abbey,  nor  to  describe  the  festivities  of  which  I  was  a 


ARRIVAL  AT  THE  ABBEY.  65 

partaker  during  my  sojourn  within  its  hospitable  walls.  I 
wish  merely  to  present  a  picture  of  the  edifice  itself,  and  of 
those  personages  and  circumstances  about  it,  connected  with 
the  memory  of  Byron. 

I  forbear,  therefore,  to  dwell  on  my  reception  by  my  excel- 
lent and  amiable  host  and  hostess,  or  to  make  my  reader  ac- 
quainted with  the  elegant  inmates  of  the  mansion  that  I  met  in 
the  saloon ;  and  I  shall  pass  on  at  once  with  him  to  the  cham- 
ber allotted  me,  and  to  which  I  was  most  respectfully  con- 
ducted by  the  chamberlain. 

It  was  one  of  a  magnificent  suite  of  rooms,  extending  between 
the  court  of  the  cloisters  and  the  Abbey  garden,  the  windows 
looking  into  the  latter.  The  whole  suite  formed  the  ancient 
state  apartment,  and  had  fallen  into  decay  during  the  neglected 
days  of  the  Abbey,  so  as  to  be  in  a  ruinous  condition  in  the 
time  of  Lord  Byron.  It  had  since  been  restored  to  its  ancient 
splendor,  of  which  my  chamber  may  be  cited  as  a  specimen. 
It  was  lofty  and  well  proportioned ;  the  lower  part  of  the  walls 
was  panelled  with  ancient  oak,  the  upper  part  hung  with  gobe- 
lin tapestry,  representing  oriental  hunting  scenes,  wherein  the 
figures  were  of  the  size  of  life,  and  of  great  vivacity  of  attitude 
and  color. 

The  furniture  was  antique,  dignified,  and  cumbrous.  High- 
backed  chairs  curiously  carved,  and  wrought  in  needlework ; 
a  massive  clothes-press  of  dark  oak,  well  polished,  and  inlaid 
with  landscapes  of  various  tinted  woods ;  a  bed  of  state,  ample 
and  lofty,  so  as  only  to  be  ascended  by  a  movable  flight  of 
steps,  the  huge  posts  supporting  a  high  tester  with  a  tuft  of 
crimson  plumes  at  each  corner,  and  rich  curtains  of  crim- 
son damask  hanging  in  broad  and  heavy  folds. 

A  venerable  mirror  of  plate  glass  stood  on  the  toilet,  in  which 
belles  of  former  centuries  may  have  contemplated  and  deco- 
rated their  charms.  The  floor  of  the  chamber  was  of  tesse- 
lated  oak,  sinning  with  wax,  and  partly  covered  by  a  Turkey 
carpet.  In  the  centre  stood  a  massy  oaken  table,  waxed  and 
polished  as  smooth  as  glass,  and  furnished  with  a  writing-desk 
of  perfumed  rosewood. 

A  sober  light  was  admitted  into  the  room  through  Gothic 
stone-shafted  casements,  partly  shaded  by  crimson  curtains, 
and  partly  overshadowed  by  the  trees  of  the  garden.  This 
solemnly  tempered  light  added  to  the  effect  of  the  stately  and 
antiquated  interio] . 

Two  po  uspended  over  the  doors,   were  in   keeping 


66 


NEWSTEAD  ABBEY. 


with  the  scene.  They  were  in  ancient  Vandyke  dresses;  one 
was  a  cavalier,  who  may  have  occupied  this  apartment  in  days 
of  yore,  the  other  was  a  lady  with  a  black  velvet  mask  in  her 
hand,  who  may  once  have  arrayed  herself  for  conquest  at  the 
very  mirror  I  have  described. 

The  most  curious  relic  of  old  times,  however,  in  this  quaint 
but  richly  dight  apartment,  was  a  great  chimney-piece  ot 
panel- work,  carved  in  high  relief,  with  niches  or  compartments, 
each  containing  a  human  bust,  that  protruded  almost  entirely 
from  the  wall.  Some  of  the  figures  were  in  ancient  Gothic 
garb ;  the  most  striking  among  them  was  a  female,  who  was 
earnestly  regarded  by  a  fierce  Saracen  from  an  adjoining  niche. 

This  panel-work  is  among  the  mysteries  of  the  Abbey, 
and  causes  as  much  wide  speculation  as  the  Egyptian  hiero- 
glyphics. Some  suppose  it  to  illustrate  an  adventure  in 
the  Holy  Land,  and  that  the  lady  in  effigy  had  been  rescued  by 
some  Crusader  of  the  family  from  tne  turbaned  Turk  who 
watches  her  so  earnestly.  What  tends  to  give  weight  to  these 
suppositions  is,  that  similar  pieces  of  panel-work  exist  in  other 
parts  of  the  Abbey,  in  all  of  which  are  to  be  seen  the  Chris- 
tian lady  and  her  Saracen  guardian  or  lover.  At  the  bot- 
tom of  these  sculptures  are  emblazoned  the  armorial  bearings 
of  the  Byrons 

I  shall  not  detain  the  reader,  however,  with  any  further 
description  of  my  apartment,  or  of  the  mysteries  connected 
with  it.  As  he  is  to  pass  some  days  witn  me  at  the  Abbey, 
wc  shall  have  time  to  examine  the  old  edifice  at  our  leisure, 
and  to  make  ourselves  acquainted,  not  merely  with  its  interior, 
but  likewise  with  its  environs. 


THE  ABBEY  GARDEN. 


The  morning  after  my  arrival,  I  rose  at  an  early  hour.  The 
daylight  was  peering  brightly  between  the  window  curtains, 
and  drawing  them  apart,  I  gazed  through  the  Gothic  casement 
upon  a  scene  that  accorded  in  character  with  the  interior  of  the 
ancient  mansion.  It  was  the  old  Abbey  garden,  but  altered  to 
suit  the  tastes  of  different  times  and  occupants.  In  one  direc- 
tion were  shady  walls  and  alleys,  broad  terraces  and  lofty 
groves ;  in  another,  beneath  a  gray  monastic-looking  angle  of 


THE  ABBEY  GARDEN.  67 

the  edifice,  overrun  -with  ivy  and  surmounted  by  a  cross,  lay  a 
small  French  garden,  with  formal  flower -pots,  gravel  walks, 
and  stately  stone  balustrades. 

The  beauty  of  the  morning,  and  the  quiet  of  the  hour, 
tempted  me  to  an  early  stroll ;  for  it  is  pleasant  to  enjoy  such 
old-time  places  alone,  when  one  may  indulge  poetical  reveries, 
and  spin  cobweb  fancies,  without  interruption.  Dressing  my- 
self, therefore,  with  all  speed,  I  descended  a  small  flight  of  steps 
from  the  state  apartment  into  the  long  corridor  over  the  clois- 
ters, along  which  I  passed  to  a  door  at  the  farther  end.  Here  I 
emerged  into  the  open  air,  and,  descending  another  flight  of 
stone  steps,  found  myself  in  the  centre  of  what  had  once  been 
the  Abbey  chapel. 

Nothing  of  the  sacred  edifice  remained,  however,  but  the 
Gothic  front,  with  its  deep  portal  and  grand  lancet  window, 
already  described.  The  nave,  the  side  walls,  the  choir,  the  sa- 
cristy, all  had  disappeared.  The  open  sky  was  over  my  head, 
a  smooth  shaven  grass-plot  beneath  my  feet.  Gravel  walks 
and  shrubberies  had  succeeded  to  the  shadowy  isles,  and  stately 
trees  to  the  clustering  columns. 

"  Where  now  the  grass  exhales  a  murky  dew, 

The  humid  pall  of  nfe-extinguished  clay, 
In  sainted  fame  the  sacred  fathers  grew, 

Nor  raised  their  pious  voices  but  to  pray. 
Where  now  the  bats  their  wavering  wings  extend, 

Soon  as  the  gloaming  spreads  her  warning  shade, 
The  choir  did  oft  their  mingling  vespers  blend, 

Or  matin  orisons  to  Mary  paid." 

Instead  of  the  matin  orisons  of  the  monks,  however,  the 
ruined  walls  of  the  chapel  now  resounded  to  the  cawing  of  in- 
numerable rooks  that  were  fluttering  and  hovering  about  the 
dark  grove  which  they  inhabited,  and  preparing  for  their  morn- 
ing flight. 

My  ramble  led  me  along  quiet  alleys,  bordered  by  shrubbery, 
where  the  solitary  water-hen  would  now  and  then  scud  across 
my  path,  and  take  refuge  among  the  bushes.  From  hence  I 
entered  upon  a  broad  terraced  walk,  once  a  favorite  resort  of 
the  friars,  which  extended  the  whole  length  of  the  old  Abbey 
garden,  passing  along  the  ancient  stone  wall  which  bounded  it. 
In  the  centre  of  the  garden  lay  one  of  the  monkish  fish-pools, 
an  oblong  sheet  of  water,  deep  set  like  a  mirror,  in  green  slop- 
ing banks  of  turf.  In  its  glassy  bosom  was  reflected  the  dark 
mass  of  a  neighboring  grove,  one  of  the  most  important 
features  of  the  garden. 


58  NBWSTEAD   ABBEY. 

This  grove  goes  by  the  sinister  name  of  ' '  the  Devil's  Wood," 
and  enjoys  but  an  equivocal  character  in  the  neighborhood.  It 
was  planted  by  "  The  Wicked  Lord  Byron,"  during  the  early 
part  of  his  residence  at  the  Abbey,  before  his  fatal  duel  with 
Mr.  Chaworth.  Having  something  of  a  foreign  and  classical 
taste,  he  set  up  leaden  statues  of  satyrs  or  fauns  at  each  end  of 
the  grove.  The  statues,  like  everything  else  about  the  old 
Lord,  fell  under  the  suspicion  and  obloquy  that  overshadowed 
him  in  the  latter  part  of  his  life.  The  country  people,  who 
knew  nothing  of  heathen  mythology  and  its  sylvan  deities, 
looked  with  horror  at  idols  invested  with  the  diabolical  attri- 
butes of  horns  and  cloven  feet.  They  probably  supposed  them 
some  object  of  secret  worship  of  the  gloomy  and  secluded 
misanthrope  and  reputed  murderer,  and  gave  them  the  name 
of  "  The  old  Lord's  Devils." 

I  penetrated  the  recesses  of  the  mystic  grove.  There 
stood  the  ancient  and  much  slandered  statues,  overshadowed 
by  tall  larches,  and  stained  by  dank  green  mold.  It  is  not  a 
matter  of  surprise  that  strange  figures,  thus  behoofed  and  be- 
horned.  and  set  up  in  a  gloomy  grove,  should  perplex  the  minds 
of  the  simple  and  superstitious  yeomanry.  There  are  many  of 
the  tastes  and  caprices  of  the  rich,  that  in  the  eyes  of  the  un- 
educated must  savor  of  insanity. 

I  was  attracted  to  this  grove,  however,  by  memorials  of  a 
more  touching  character.  It  had  been  one  of  the  favorite 
haunts  of  the  late  Lord  Byron.  In  Ins  farewell  visit  to  the 
Abbey,  after  he  had  parted  with  the  possession  of  it,  ne  passed 
some  time  in  this  grove,  in  company  with  his  sister ;  and  as  a 
last  memento,  engraved  their  names  on  the  bark  of  a  tree. 

The  feelings  that  agitated  his  bosom  during  this  farewell 
visit,  when  he  beheld  round  him  objects  dear  to  his  pride,  and 
dear  to  his  juvenile  recollections,  but  of  which  the  narrowness 
of  his  fortune  would  not  permit  him  to  retain  possession,  may 
be  gathered  from  a  passage  in  a  poetical  epistle,  written  to  his 
sister  in  after  years : 

I  did  remind  you  of  our  own  dear  lake 

By  the  old  hall,  which  may  be  mine  no  more; 
Leman's  is  fair;  but  think  not  I  forsake 

The  sweet  remembrance  of  a  dearer  shore: 
Sad  havoo  Time  must  with  my  memory  make 

Ere  that  or  thou  can  fade  these  eyes  before; 
Though,  like  all  things  which  I  have  loved,  they  are 
Resign'd  for  ever,  or  divided  far. 


THE  ABBE7   OAHBBN.  69 

I  feel  aim  «*1  al  tim(  felt 

i'   nappy  childhood;  trees,  and  flowers,  and  brooks. 

Which  do  remember  me  of  where  I  dwelt 
Ere  my  young  mind  was  sacrificed  to  books, 

Come  as  of  yore  upon  me.  and  can  melt 
My  heart  With  recognition  of  their  looks; 

And  even  at  moments  1  would  think  I  see 

Some  living  things  I  love— but  none  like  thee." 

T  searched  the  grove  for  some  time,  before  I  found  the  tree 
on  which  Lord  Byron  had  left  his  frail  memorial.  It  was  an 
elm  of  peculiar  form,  having  two  trunks,  winch  sprang  from 
the  same  root,  and,  after  growing  side  by  side,  mingled  their 
branches  together.  He  had  selected  it,  doubtless,  as  em- 
blematical of  his  sister  and  himself .  The  names  of  Byron  and 
Augusta  were  still  visible.  They  had  been  deeply  cut  in  the 
bark,  but  the  natural  growth  of  the  tree  was  gradually  render 
ing  them  illegible,  and  a  few  years  hence,  strangers  will  seek 
in  vain  for  this  record  of  fraternal  affection. 

Leaving  the  grove,  I  continued  my  ramble  along  a  spacious 
terrace,  overlooking  what  had  once  been  the  kitchen  garden  of 
the  Abbey.  Below  me  lay  the  monks'  stew,  or  fish  pond,  a 
dark  pool,  overhung  by  gloomy  cypresses,  with  a  solitary 
water-hen  swimming  about  in  it. 

A  little  farther  on,  and  the  terrace  looked  down  upon  the 
stately  scene  on  the  south  side  or  rne  Abbey ;  the  flower  garden, 
with  its  stone  balustrades  and  stately  peacocks,  the  lawn,  with 
its  pheasants  and  partridges,  and  the  soft  valley  of  Newstead 
beyond. 

At  a  distance,  on  the  border  of  the  lawn,  stood  another  me- 
mento of  Lord  Byron;  an  oak  planted  by  him  in  his  boyhood, 
on  his  first  visit  to  the  Abbey.  With  a  superstitious  feeling  in- 
herent in  him,  he  linked  his  own  destiny  with  that  of  the  tree. 
"As  it  fares,"  said  he,  "so  will  fare  my  fortunes."  Several 
years  elapsed,  many  of  them  passed  in  idleness  and  dissipation. 
He  returned  to  the  Abbey  a  youth  scarce  grown  to  manhood, 
but,  as  he  thought,  with  vices  and  f ollies  beyond  his  years.  He 
found  his  emblem  oak  almost  choked  by  weeds  and  brambles, 
and  took  the  lesson  to  himself. 

"  Young  oak.  when  I  planted  thee  deep  in  the  ground, 
I  hoped  that  thy  days  would  he  longer  than  mine, 
That  thy  dark  waving  brandies  would  flourish  around, 
And  ivy  thj-  trunk  with  its  mantle  entwine. 
11  Such,  such  was  my  hope— when  in  infancy's  years 
On  the  laud  of  my  fathers  I  reared  thee  with  pride; 
They  are  past,  and  I  water  thy  stem  with  my  tears— 
Thy  decay  not  the  w«eds  that  surround  thee  can  hide." 


70  NEWSTEAB  ABBEY. 

1  leaned  over  the  stone  balustrade  of  the  terrace,  and  gazed 
upon  the  valley  of  Newstead,  with  its  silver  sheets  of  water 
gleaming  in  the  morning  sun.  It  was  a  sabbath  morning, 
which  always  seems  to  have  a  hallowed  influence  over  the  land- 
scape, probably  from  the  quiet  of  the  day,  and  the  cessation  of 
all  kinds  of  week-day  labor.  As  I  mused  upon  the  mild  and 
beautiful  scene,  and  the  wayward  destinies  of  the  man,  whose 
stormy  temperament  forced  him  from  this  tranquil  paradise  to 
battle  with  the  passions  and  perils  of  the  world,  the  sweet 
chime  of  bells  from  a  village  a  few  miles  distant  came  stealing 
up  the  valley.  Every  sight  and  sound  this  morning  seemed 
calculated  to  summon  up  touching  recollections  of  poor  Byron. 
The  chime  was  from  the  village  spire  of  Hucknall  Torkard,  be- 
neath which  his  remains  he  buried ! 

1  have  since  visited  his  tomb.    It  is  in  an  old  gray 

country  church,  venerable  with  the  lapse  of  centuries.  He  lies 
buried  beneath  the  pavement,  at  one  end  of  the  principal  aisle. 
A  light  falls  on  the  spot  through  the  stained  glass  of  a  Gothic 
window,  and  a  tablet  on  the  adjacent  wall  announces  the 
family  vault  of  the  Byrons.  It  had  been  the  wayward  inten- 
tion of  the  poet  to  be  entombed,  with  his  faithful  dog,  in  the 
monument  erected  by  him  in  the  garden  of  Newstead  Abbey. 
His  executors  showed  better  judgment  and  feeling,  in  consign- 
ing his  ashes  to  the  family  sepulchre,  to  mingle  with  those  of 
his  mother  and  his  kindred.    Here, 

"  After  life's  fitful  fever,  he  sleeps  well. 
Malice  domestic,  foreign  levy,  nothing 
Can  touch  him  further!" 

How  nearly  did  his  dying  hour  realize  the  wish  made  by 
him,  but  a  few  years  previously,  in  one  of  his  fitful  moods  of 
melancholy  and  misanthropy : 

"  When  time,  or  soon  or  late,  shall  bring 
The  dreamless  sleep  that  lulls  the  dead, 
Oblivion !  may  thy  languid  wing 
Wave  gently  o'er  my  dying  bed ! 

"  No  band  of  friends  or  heirs  be  there, 
To  weep  or  wish  the  coming  blow: 
No  maiden  with  dishevelled  hair, 
To  feel,  or  f ein  decorous  woe. 

•  But  silent  let  me  sink  to  earth, 

With  no  officious  mourners  near: 
I  would  not  mar  one  hour  of  mirth, 
Nor  startle  friendship  with  a  tear.'* 


PLOUGH  MONDAY.  71 

He  died  among  strangers,  in  a  foreign  land,  without  a  kindred 
aand  to  close  his  eyes;  yet  he  did  not  die  unwept.  With  all 
his  faults  and  errors,  and  passions  and  caprices,  he  had  the  gift 
of  attaching  his  humble  dependents  warmly  to  him.  One  of 
them,  a  poor  Greek,  accompanied  his  remains  to  England,  and 
followed  them  to  the  grave.  I  am  told  that,  during  the  cere- 
mony, he  stood  nolding  on  by  a  pew  in  an  agony  of  grief,  an  "• 
when  all  was  over,  seemed  as  if  he  would  have  gone  down  imi  <  \ 
the  tomb  with  the  body  of  his  master. — A  nature  that  could  in- 
spire such  attachments,  must  have  been  generous  and  benefi- 
cent. 


PLOUGH  MONDAY. 

Sherwood  Forest  is  a  region  that  still  retains  much  of  the 
quaint  customs  and  holiday  games  of  the  olden  tune.  A  day 
or  two  after  my  arrival  at  the  Abbey,  as  I  was  walking  in  the 
cloisters,  I  heard  the  sound  of  rustic  music,  and  now  and  then 
a  burst  of  merriment,  proceeding  from  the  interior  of  the  man- 
sion. Presently  the  chamberlain  came  and  informed  me  that 
a  party  of  country  lads  were  in  the  servants1  hall,  performing 
Plough  Monday  antics,  and  invited  me  to  witness  their  mum- 
mery. I  gladly  assented,  for  I  am  somewhat  curious  about 
these  relics  of  popular  usages.  The  servants'  hall  was  a  fit 
place  for  the  exhibition  of  an  old  Gothic  game.  It  was  a 
chamber  of  great  extent,  which  in  monkish  times  had  been  the 
refectory  of  the  Abbey.  A  row  of  massive  columns  extended 
lengthwise  through  the  centre,  whence  sprung  Gothic  arches, 
supporting  the  low  vaulted  ceiling.  Here  was  a  set  of  rustics 
dressed  up  in  something  of  the  style  represented  in  the  books 
concerning  popular  antiquities.  One  was  in  a  rough  garb  of 
frieze,  with  his  head  muffled  in  bear-skin,  and  a  bell  dangling 
behind  him,  that  jingled  at  every  movement.  He  was  the  clown, 
or  fool  of  the  party,  probably  a  traditional  representative  of 
the  ancient  satyr.  The  rest  were  decorated  with  ribbons  and 
armed  with  wooden  swords.  The  leader  of  the  troop  recited 
the  old  ballad  of  St.  George  and  the  Dragon,  which  had  been 
current  among  the  country  people  for  ages;  his  companions 
accompanied  the  recitation  with  some  rude  attempt  at  acting, 
while  the  clown  cut  all  kinds  of  antics. 

To  these  succeeded  a  set  of  moms-dancers,  gayly  dressed  up 


72  NEW8TEAD  ABBEY. 

with  ribbons  and  hawks'-bells.  In  tins  troop  we  had  Robin] 
Hood  and  Maid  Marian,  the  latter  represented  by  a  smooth-] 
faced  boy ;  also  Beelzebub,  equipped  with  a  broom,  and  accomJ 
panied  by  his  wife  Bessy,  a  termagant  old  beldame.  These 
rude  pageants  are  the  lingering  remains  of  the  old  customs  oil 
Plough  Monday,  when  bands  of  rustics,  fantastically  dressed,] 
and  furnished  with  pipe  and  tabor,  dragged  what  was  called, 
the  ' '  fool  plough''  from  house  to  house,  singing  ballads  and  per-] 
forming  antics,  for  which  they  were  rewarded  with  money  and 
good  cheer. 

But  it  is  not  in  "merry  Sherwood  Forest"  alone  that  these j 
remnants  of  old  times  prevail.  They  are  to  be  met  with  in] 
most  of  the  counties  north  of  the  Trent,  which  classic  stream! 
seems  to  bo  the  boundary  line  of  primitive  customs.  During] 
my  recent  Christmas  sojourn  at  Barlboro'  Hall,  on  the  skirts  oq 
Derbyshire  and  Yorkshire,  I  had  witnessed  many  of  the  rustic] 
festivities  peculiar  to  that  joyous  season,  which  have  rashly] 
been  pronounced  obsolete,  by  those  who  draw  their  experienced 
merely  from  city  life.  I  had  seen  the  great  Yule  log  put  on  the 
fire  on  Christmas  Eve,  and  the  wassail  bowl  sent  round,  brim-1 
ming  with  its«spicy  beverage.  I  had  heard  carols  beneath  my 
window  by  the  choristers  of  the  neighboring  village,  who  went  < 
their  rounds  about  the  ancient  Hall  at  midnight,  according  to] 
immemorial  custom.  We  had  mummers  and  mimers  too,  with 
the  story  of  St.  George  and  the  Dragon,  and  other  ballads  and^ 
traditional  dialogues,  together  with  i;he  famous  old  interlude  of] 
the  Hobby  Horse,  all  represented  in  the  antechamber  and  ser- 
vants1 hall  by  rustics,  who  inherited  the  custom  and  the  poetry  j 
from  preceding  generations. 

The  boar's  head,  crowned  with  rosemary,  had  taken  its  hon- 
ored station  among  the  Christmas  cheer;  the  festal  board  had 
been  attended  by  glee  singers  and  minstrels  from  the  village  to  I 
entertain  the  company  with  hereditary  songs  and  catches  dur- 
ing  their  repast ;  and  the  old  Pyrrhic  game  of  the  sword  dance, 
handed  down  since  the  time  of  the  Eomans,  was  admirably 
performed  in  the  court-yard  of  the  mansion  by  a  band  of  young 
men,  lithe  and  supple  in  their  forms  and  graceful  in  their 
movements,  who,  I  was  told,  went  the  rounds  of  the  villages 
and  country-seats  during  the  Christmas  holidays. 

I  specify  these  rural  pageants  and  ceremonials,  which  I  saw 
during  my  sojourn  in  this  neighborhood,  because  it  has  been 
deemed  that  some  of  the  anecdotes  of  holiday  customs  given  in 
my  preceding  writings,  related  to  usages  which  have  entirely 


OLD  SERVANTS.  73 

passed  away.  Critics  who  reside  in  cities  have  little  idea  of  the 
primitive  manners  and  observances,  which  still  prevail  in  re- 
mote and  rural  neighborhoods. 

In  fact,  in  crossing  the  Trent  one  seems  to  step  back  into  old 
times ;  and  in  the  villages  of  Sherwood  Forest  we  are  in  a  black- 
letter  region.  The  moss-green  cottages,  the  lowly  mansions  of 
gray  stone,  the  Gothic  crosses  at  each  end  of  the  villages,  and 
the  tall  Maypole  in  the  centre,  transport  us  in  imagination  to 
foregone  centuries;  everything  has  a  quaint  and  antiquated 
air. 

^The  tenantry  on  the  Abbey  estate  partake  of  this  primitive 
character.  Some  of  the  families  have  rented  farms  there  for 
nearly  three  hundred  years;  and,  notwithstanding  that  their 
mansions  fell  to  decay,  and  every  thing  about  them  partook  of 
the  general  waste  and  misrule  of  the  Byron  dynasty,  yet  noth- 
ing could  uproot  them  from  their  native  soil.  I  am  happy  to 
say.  that  Colonel  Wildman  has  taken  these  stanch  loyal  fami- 
lies under  Ins  peculiar  care.  He  has  favored  them  in  their 
rents,  repaired,  or  rather  rebuilt  their  farm-houses,  and  has 
enabled  families  "that  had  almost  sunk  into  the  class  of  mere 
rustic  laborers,  once  more  to  hold  up  their  heads  among  the 
.yeomanry  of  the  land. 

I  visited  one  of  these  renovated  establishments  that  had  but 
lately  been  a  mere  ruin,  and  now  was  a  substantial  grange.  It 
was  inhabited  by  a  young  couple.  The  good  woman  showed 
every  part  of  the  establishment  with  decent  pride,  exulting  in 
its  comfort  and  respectability.  Her  husband,  I  understood, 
had  risen  in  consequence  with  the  improvement  of  his  man- 
sion, and  now  began  to  be  known  among  his  rustic  neighbors 
by- the  appellation  of  "the  young  Squire." 


OLD  SERVANTS. 


In  an  old,  time-worn,  and  mysterious  looking  mansion  like- 
Newstead  Abbey,  and  one  so  haunted  by  monkish,  and  feudal, 
and  poetical  associations,  it  is  a  prize  to  meet  with  some  ancient 
crone,  who  has  passed  a  long  life  about  the  place,  so  as  to  have 
become  a  living  chronicle  of  its  fortunes  and  vicissitudes.  Such 
a  one  is  Nanny  Smith,  a  worthy  dame,  near  seventy  years  of 
age,  who  for  a  long  thne  served  as  housekeeper  to  the  Byrons. 


74  NKWSTEAD  ABBEY. 


The  Abbey  and  its  domains  comprise  her  world,  beyond  which 
she  knows  nothing,  but  within  which  she  has  ever  conducted 
herself  with  native  shrewdness  and  old-fashioned  honesty. 
When  Lord  Byron  sold  the  Abbey  her  vocation  was  at  an  end, 
still  she  lingered  about  the  place,  having  for  it  the  local  attach- 
ment of  a  cat.  Abandoning  her  comfortable  housekeeper's- 
apartment,  she  took  shelter  in  one  of  the  "  rock  houses, "  which 
are  nothing  more  than  a  little  neighborhood  of  cabins,  exca- 
vated in  the  perpendicular  walls  of  a  stone  quarry,  at  no  great 
distance  from  the  Abbey.  Three  cells  cut  in  the  living  rock, 
formed  her  dwelling ;  these  she  fitted  up  humbly  but  comf orta-. 
bly;  her  son  William  labored  in  the  neighborhood,  and  aided 
to  support  her,  and  Nanny  Smith  maintained  a  cheerful  aspect 
and  an  independent  spirit.  One  of  her  gossips  suggested  to  her 
that  William  should  marry,  and  bring  home  a  young  wife  to 
help  her  and  take  care  of  her.  "Nay,  nay,"  replied  Nanny, 
tartly,  "I  want  no  young  mistress  in  my  house.'"  So  much  for 
the  love  of  rule— poor  Nanny's  house  was  a  hole  in  a  rock ! 

Colonel  Wildman,  on  taking  possession  of  the  Abbey,  found 
Nanny  Smith  thus  humbly  nestled.  With  that  active  benevo- 
lence which  characterizes  him,  he  immediately  set  William  up 
in  a  small  farm  on  the  estate,  where  Nanny  Smith  has  a  com- 
fortable mansion  in  her  old  days.  Her  pride  is  roused  by  her 
son's  advancement.  She  remarks  with  exultation  that  people 
treat  William  with  much  more  respect  now  that  he  is  a  farmer, 
than  they  did  when  he  was  a  laborer.  A  farmer  of  the  neigh- 
borhood has  even  endeavored  to  make  a  match  between  him 
and  Ins  sister,  but  Nanny  Smith  has  grown  fastidious,  and  in- 
terfered. The  girl,  she  said,  was  too  old  for  her  son,  besides, 
she  did  not  see  that  he  was  in  any  need  of  a  wife. 

"No,"  said  William,  "I  ha'  no  great  mind  to  marry  the 
wench :  but  if  the  Colonel  and  his  lady  wish  it,  I  am  willing. 
They  have  been  so  kind  to  me  that  I  should  think  it  my  duty 
to  please  them."  The  Colonel  and  his  lady,  however,  have 
not  thought  proper  to  put  honest  William's  gratitude  to  so 
severe  a  test. 

Another  worthy  whom  Colonel  Wildman  found  vegetating 
upon  the  place,  and  who  had  lived  there  for  at  least  sixty  years, 
was  old  Joe  Murray.  He  had  come  there  when  a  mere  boy  in 
the  train  of  the  ' '  old  lord. "  about  the  middle  of  the  last  century, 
and  had  continued  with  him  until  his  death.  Having  been  a 
cabin  boy  when  very  young,  Joe  always  fancied  himself  a  bit 
of  a  sailor,  and  had  charge  of  all  the  pleasure-boats  on  the  lake, 


OLD  SERVANTS.  75 

though  he  afterward  rose  to  the  dignity  of  butler.  In  the 
latter  days  of  the  old  Lord  Byron,  when  he  shut  himself  up 
from  all  the  world,  Joe  Murray  was  the  only  servant  regained 
by  him,  excepting  his  housekeeper,  Betty  Hardstaff,  who  was 
reputed  to  have  an  undue  sway  over  him,  and  was  derisively 
called  Lady  Betty  among  the  country  folk. 

When  the  Abbey  came  into  the  possession  of  the  late  Lord 
Byron,  Joe  Murray  accompanied  it  as  a  fixture.  He  was  re- 
instated as  butler  in  the  Abbey,  and  high  admiral  on  the  lake, 
and  his  sturdy  honest  mastiff  qualities  won  so  upon  Lord 
Byron  as  even  to  rival  his  Newfoundland  dog  in  his  affections. 
Often  when  dining,  he  would  pour  out  a  bumper  of  choice 
Madeira,  and  hand  it  to  Joe  as  he  stood  behind  his  chair.  In 
fact,  when  he  built  the  monumental  tomb  which  stands  in  the 
Abbey  garden,  he  intended  it  for  himself,  Joe  Murray,  and  the 
dog.  The  two  latter  were  to  lie  on  each  side  of  him.  Boat- 
swain died  not  long  afterward,  and  was  regularly  interred,  and 
the  well-known  epitaph  inscribed  on  one  side  of  the  monument. 
Lord  Byron  departed  for  Greece ;  during  his  absence,  a  gentle- 
man to  whom  Joe  Murray  was  showing  the  tomb,  observed, 
"Well,  old  boy,  you  will  take  your  place  here  some  twenty 
years  hence." 

"I  don't  know  that,  sir,"  growled  Joe,  in  reply,  "if  I  was 
sure  his  Lordship  would  come  here,  I  should  like  it  well  enough, 
but  I  should  not  like  co  lie  alone  with  the  dog." 

Joe  Murray  was  always  extremely  neat  in  his  dress,  and 
attentive  to  his  person,  and  made  a  most  respectable  appear- 
ance. A  portrait  of  him  still  hangs  in  the  Abbey,  representing 
him  a  hale  fresh-looking  fellow,  in  a  flaxen  wig,  a  blue  coat 
and  buff  waistcoat,  with  a  pipe  in  his  hand.  He  discharged  all 
the  duties  of  his  station  with  great  fidelity,  unquestionable 
honesty,  and  much  outward  decorum,  but,  if  we  may  beliei 
his  contemporary,  Nanny  Smith,  who,  as  housekeeper,  shar-  i 
the  sway  of  the  household  with  him,  he  was  very  lax  in  h\> 
minor  morals,  and  used  to  sing  loose  and  profane  songs  as  he 
presided  at  the  table  in  the  servants'  hall,  or  sat  taking  his  air 
and  smoking  his  pipe  by  the  evening  fire.  Joe  had  evidently 
derived  his  convivial  notions  from  the  race  of  English  country 
squires  who  flourished  in  the  days  of  his  juvenility.  Nanny 
Smith  was  scandalized  at  his  ribald  songs,  but  being  above 
harm  herself,  endured  them  in  silence.  At  length,  on  his  sing- 
ing them  before  a  young  girl  of  sixteen,  she  could  contain  her 
self  no  longer,  but  read  him  a  lecture  that  made  his  ears  ring, 


76  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY. 

and  then  flounced  off  to  bed.  The  lecture  seems,  by  her  ac- 
count, to  have  staggered  Joe,  for  he  told  her  the  next  morning 
that  he  had  had  a  terrible  dream  in  the  night.  An  Evangel- 
ist stood  at  the  foot  of  his  bed  with  a  great  Dutch  Bible,  which 
he  held  with  the  printed  part  toward  him,  and  after  a  while 
pushed  it  in  his  face.  Nanny  Smith  undertook  to  interpret 
the  vision,  and  read  from  it  such  a  homily,  and  deduced  such 
awful  warnings,  that  Joe  became  quite  serious,  left  off  singing, 
and  took  to  reading  good  books  for  a  month;  but  after  that, 
continued  Nanny,  he  relapsed  and  became  as  bad  as  ever,  and 
continued  to  sing  loose  and  profane  songs  to  his  dying  day. 

When  Colonel  Wildman  became  proprietor  of  the  Abbey  he 
found  Joe  Murray  flourishing  in  a  green  old  age,  though  up- 
ward of  fourscore,  and  continued  him  in  his  station  as  butler. 
The  old  man  was  rejoiced  at  the  extensive  repairs  that  were 
immediately  commenced,  and  anticipated  with  pride  the  day 
when  the  Abbey  should  rise  out  of  its  ruins  with  renovated 
splendor,  its  gates  be  thronged  with  trains  and  equipages,  and 
its  halls  once  more  echo  to  the  sound  of  joyous  hospitality. 

What  chiefly,  however,  concerned  Joe's  pride  and  ambition, 
was  a  plan  of  the  Colonel's  to  have  the  ancient  refectory  of  the 
convent,  a  great  vaulted  room,  supported  by  Gothic  columns, 
converted  into  a  servants'  hall.  Here  Joe  looked  forward  to 
rule  the  roast  at  the  head  of  the  servants'  table,  and  to  make 
the  Gothic  arches  ring  with  those  hunting  and  hard-drinking 
ditties  which  were  the  horror  of  the  discreet  Nanny  Smith. 
Time,  however,  was  fast  wearing  away  with  him,  and  his  great 
fear  was  that  the  hall  would  not  be  completed  in  his  day.  In 
his  eagerness  to  hasten  the  repairs,  he  used  to  get  up  early  in 
the  morning,  and  ring  up  the  workmen.  Notwithstanding  his 
great  age,  also,  he  would  turn  out  half -dressed  in  cold  weather 
to  cut  sticks  for  the  fire.  Colonel  Wildman  kindly  remon- 
strated with  him  for  thus  risking  his  health,  as  others  would 
do  the  work  for  him. 

u  Lord,  sir,"  exclaimed  th  ehale  old  fellow,  "it's  my  air-bath, 
I'm  all  the  better  for  it." 

Unluckily,  as  he  was  thus  employed  one  morning  a  splinter 
flew  up  and  wounded  one  of  his  eyes.  An  inflammation  took 
place ;  he  lost  the  sight  of  that  eye,  and  subsequently  of  the 
other.  Poor  Joe  gradually  pined  away,  and  grew  melancholy. 
Colonel  Wildman  kindly  tried  to  cheer  him  up— "  Come,  come, 
old  boy,"  cried  he,  "  be  of  good  heart,  you  will  yet  take  youi 
place  in  the  servants'  hall." 


SUPERSTITIONS  OF  Tilt:  ABBEY. 


i  t 


"Nay,  nay,  sir,"  replied  he.  "  I  did  hope  once  that  I  should 
live  to  see  it — I  looked  forward  to  it  with  pride,  I  confess,  but 
it  is  all  over  with  me  now— I  shall  soon  go  home  I" 

He  died  shortly  afterward,  at  the  advanced  age  of  eighty-six, 
seventy  of  which  had  been  passed  as  an  honest  and  faithful 
servant  at  the  Abbey.  Colonel  Wildman  had  him  decently  in- 
terred in  the  church  of  Hucknall  Torkard,  near  the  vault  of 
Lord  Byron. 


SUPERSTITIONS  OF  THE  ABBEY. 

The  anecdotes  I  had  heard  of  the  quondam  housekeeper  of 
Lord  Byron,  rendered  me  desirous  of  paying  her  a  visit.  I 
rode  in  company  with  Colonel  Wildman,  therefore,  to  the  cot- 
tage of  her  son  William,  where  she  resides,  and  found  her 
seated  by  her  fireside,  with  a  favorite  cat  perched  upon  her 
shoulder  and  purring  in  her  ear.  Nanny  Smith  is  a  large, 
good-lookiiig  woman,  a  specimen  of  the  old-fashioned  country 
housewife,  combining  antiquated  notions  and  prejudices,  and 
xqtj  limited  information,  with  natural  good  sense.  She  loves 
to  gossip  about  the  Abbey  and  Lord  Byron,  and  was  soon 
drawn  into  a  course  of  anecdotes,  though  mostly  of  an  humble 
kind,  such  as  suited  the  meridian  of  the  housekeeper's  room 
and  servants'  hall.  She  seemed  to  entertain  a  kind  recollec- 
tion of  Lord  Byron,  though  she  had  evidently  been  much  per- 
plexed by  some  of  his  vagaries ;  and  especially  by  the  means 
he  adopted  to  counteract  his  tendency  to  corpulency.  He  used 
various  modes  to  sweat  himself  down ;  sometimes  he  would  lie 
for  a  long  time  in  a  warm  bath,  sometimes  he  would  walk  up 
the  hills  in  the  park,  wrapped  up  and  loaded  with  great  coats ; 
"a  sad  toil  for  the  poor  youth,"  added  Nanny,  "he  being  so 
lame." 

His  meals  were  scanty  and  irregular,  consisting  of  dishes 
which  Nanny  seemed  to  hold  in  great  contempt,  such  as  pillau. 
maccaroni,  and  light  puddings. 

She  contradicted  the  report  of  the  licentious  life  which  he 
was  reported  to  lead  at  the  Abbey,  and  of  the  paramours  said 
to  have  been  brought  with  him  from  London.  "A  great  part 
of  his  time  used  to  be  passed  lying  on  a  sofa  reading.  Some- 
times he  had  young  gentlemen  of  his  acquaintance  with  him. 


78  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY. 

and  they  played  some  mad  pranks;  but  nothing  but  what 
young  gentlemen  may  do,  and  no  harm  done." 

"  Once,  it  is  true,"  she  added,  "he  had  with  him  a  beautiful 
boy  as  a  page,  which  the  housemaids  said  was  a  girl.  For  my 
part,  I  know  nothing  about  it.  Poor  soul,  he  was  so  lame  he 
could  not  go  out  much  with  the  men ;  all  the  comfort  he  had 
was  to  be  a  little  with  the  lasses.  The  housemaids,  however, 
were  very  jealous ;  one  of  them,  in  particular,  took  the  matter 
in  great  dudgeon.  Her  name  was  Lucy;  she  was  a  great 
favorite  with  Lord  Byron,  and  had  been  much  noticed  by  him, 
and  began  to  have  high  notions.  She  had  her  fortune  told  by 
a  man  who  squinted,  to  whom  she  gave  two-and-sixpence.  He 
told  her  to  hold  up  her  head  and  look  high,  for  she  would  come 
to  great  things.  Upon  this,"  added  Nanny,  "the  poor  thing 
dreamt  of  nothing  less  than  becoming  a  lady,  and  mistress  of 
the  Abbey ;  and  promised  me,  if  such  luck  should  happen  to 
her,  she  would  be  a  good  friend  to  me.  Ah  well-a-day !  Lucy 
never  had  the  fine  fortune  she  dreamt  of;  but  she  had  better 
than  I  thought  for ;  she  is  now  married,  and  keeps  a  public 
house  at  Warwick. " 

Finding  that  we  listened  to  her  with  great  attention,  Nanny 
Smith  went  on  with  her  gossiping.  "One  time,"  said  she, 
"Lord  Byron  took  a  notion  that  there  was  a  deal  of  money 
buried  about  the  Abbey  by  the  monks  in  old  times,  and  noth- 
ing would  serve  him  but  he  must  have  the  flagging  taken  up 
in  the  cloisters ;  and  they  digged  and  digged,  but  found  noth- 
ing but  stone  cofiins  full  of  bones.  Then  he  must  needs  have 
one  of  the  coffins  put  in  one  end  of  the  great  hall,  so  that  the 
servants  were  afraid  to  go  there  of  nights.  Several  of  the 
skulls  were  cleaned  and  put  in  frames  in  his  room.  I  used  to 
have  to  go  into  the  room  at  night  to  shut  the  windows,  and  if 
I  glanced  an  eye  at  them,  they  all  seemed  to  grin ;  which  I  be- 
lieve skulls  always  do.  I  can't  say  but  I  was  glad  to  get  out  of 
the  room. 

"There  was  at  one  time  (and  for  that  matter  there  is  still) 
a  good  deal  said  about  ghosts  haunting  about  the  Abbey.  The 
keeper's  wife  said  she  saw  two  standing  in  a  dark  part  of  the 
cloisters  just  opposite  the  chapel,  and  one  in  the  garden  by  the 
lord's  well.  Then  there  was  a  young  lady,  a  cousin  of  Lord 
Byron,  who  was  staying  in  the  Abbey  and  slept  in  the  room 
next  the  clock ;  and  she  told  me  that  one  night  when  she  was 
lying  in  bed,  she  saw  a  lady  in  white  come  out  of  the  wall  on 
one  side  of  the  room,  and  go  into  the  wall  on  the  opposite  side 


SWMkSTITlOftS  of  rut<:  .\r,m<;Y.  v., 

"Lord  Byron  one  day  said  to  me,  'Nanny,  what  nonsense 
they  tell  about  ghosts,  as  if  there  ever  were  any  such  things. 
I  have  never  seen  any  thing  of  the  kind  about  the  Abbey,  and 
I  warrant  you  have  not.1  This  was  all  done,  do  you  see,  to 
draw  me  out ;  but  I  said  nothing,  but  shook  my  head.  How- 
ever, they  say  his  lordship  did  once  see  something.  It  was  in 
the  great  hall — something  all  black  and  hairy,  he  said  it  was 
the  devil. 

"For  my  part,"  continued  Nanny  Smith,  "I  never  saw  any- 
thing of  the  kind — but  I  heard  something  once.  I  was  one 
evening  scrubbing  the  floor  of  the  little  dining-room  at  the  end 
of  the  long  gallery;  it  was  after  dark;  I  expected  every  mo- 
ment to  be  called  to  tea,  but  wished  to  finish  what  I  was  about. 
All  at  once  I  heard  heavy  footsteps  in  the  great  hall.  They 
sounded  like  the  tramp  of  a  horse.  I  took  the  light  and  went 
to  see  what  it  was.  I  heard  the  steps  come  from  the  lower  end 
of  the  hall  to  the  fireplace  in  the  centre,  where  they  stopped ; 
but  I  could  see  nothing.  I  returned  to  my  work,  and  in  a  little 
time  heard  the  same  noise  again.  I  went  again  with  the  light ; 
the  footsteps  stopped  by  the  fireplace  as  before;  still  I  could 
see  nothing.  I  returned  to  my  work,  when  I  heard  the  steps 
for  a  third  time.  I  then  went  into  the  hall  without  a  light,  but 
they  stopped  just  the  same,  by  the  fireplace,  half  way  up  the 
hall.  I  thought  this  rather  odd,  but  returned  to  my  work. 
When  it  was  finished,  I  took  the  light  and  went  through  the 
hall,  as  that  was  my  way  to  the  kitchen.  I  heard  no  more 
footsteps,  and  thought  no  more  of  the  matter,  when,  on  coming 
to  the  lower  end  of  the  hall,  I  found  the  door  locked,  and  then, 
on  one  side  of  the  door,  I  saw  the  stone  coffin  with  the  skull 
and  bones  that  had  been  digged  up  in  the  cloisters. " 

Here  Nanny  paused.  I  asked  her  if  she  believed  that  the 
mysterious  footsteps  had  any  connection  with  the  skeleton  in 
the  coffin ;  but  she  shook  her  head,  and  would  not  commit  her- 
self. We  took  our  leave  of  the  good  old  dame  shortly  after, 
and  the  story  she  had  related  gave  subject  for  conversation  on 
our  ride  homeward.  It  was  evident  she  had  spoken  the  truth 
as  to  what  she  had  heard,  but  had  been  deceived  by  some  pecu- 
liar effect  of  sound.  Noises  are  propagated  about  a  huge  irreg- 
ular edifice  of  the  kind  in  a  very  deceptive  manner ;  footsteps 
are  prolonged  and  reverberated  by  the  vaulted  cloisters  and 
echoing  halls ;  the  creaking  and  slamming  of  distant  gates,  the 
rushing  of  the  blast  through  the  groves  and  among  the  ruined 
arches  of  the  chapel,  have  all  a  strangely  delusive  effect  at  night. 


80  NEWSTEAD  ABBE/. 

Colonel  Wildman  gave  an  instance  of  the  kind  from  his  own 
experience.  Not  long  after  he  had  taken  up  his  residence  at 
the  Abbey,  he  heard  one  moonlight  night  a  noise  as  if  a  car- 
riage was  passing  at  a  distance.  lie  opened  the  window  and 
leaned  out.  It  then  seemed  as  if  the  great  iron  roller  was 
dragged  along  the  gravel  walks  and  terrace,  but  there  was 
nothing  to  be  seen.  When  he  saw  the  gardener  on  the  follow 
ing  morning,  he  questioned  him  about  working  so  late  at  night. 
The  gardener  declared  that  no  one  had  been  at  work,  and  th* 
roller  was  chained  up.  He  was  sent  to  examine  it,  and  came 
back  with  a  countenance  full  of  surprise.  The  roller  had  been 
moved  in  the  night,  but  he  declared  no  mortal  hand  could 
have  moved  it.  "Well,"  replied  the  Colonel,  good-humoredly, 
"  I  am  glad  to  find  I  have  a  brownie  to  work  for  me." 

Lord  Byron  did  much  to  foster  and  give  currency  to  the 
superstitious  tales  connected  with  the  Abbey,  by  believing,  or 
pretending  to  believe  in  them.  Many  have  supposed  that  his 
mind  was  really  tinged  with  superstition,  and  that  this  innate 
infirmity  was  increased  by  passing  much  of  his  time  in  a  lonely 
way,  about  the  empty  halls  and  cloisters  of  the  Abbey,  then  in 
a  ruinous  melancholy  state,  and  brooding  over  the  skulls  and 
effigies  of  its  former  inmates.  I  should  rather  think  that  he 
found  poetical  enjoyment  in  these  supernatural  themes,  and 
that  his  imagination  delighted  to  people  this  gloomy  and 
romantic  pile  with  all  kinds  of  shadowy  inhabitants.  Certain 
it  is,  the  aspect  of  the  mansion  under  the  varying  influence  of 
twilight  and  moonlight,  and  cloud  and  sunshine  operating 
upon  its  halls,  and  galleries,  and  monkish  cloisters,  is  enough 
to  breed  all  kinds  of  fancies  in  the  minds  of  its  inmates,  espe- 
cially if  poetically  or  superstitiously  inclined. 

I  have  already  mentioned  some  of  the  fabled  visitants  of  the 
Abbey.  The  goblin  friar,  however,  is  the  one  to  whom  Lord 
Byron  has  given  the  greatest  importance.  It  walked  the  clois- 
ters by  night,  and  sometimes  glimpses  of  it  were  seen  in  other 
parts  of  the  Abbey.  Its  appearance  was  said  to  portend  some 
impending  evil  to  the  master  of  the  mansion.  Lord  Byron 
pretended  to  have  seen  it  about  a  month  before  he  contracted 
his  ill-starred  marriage  with  Miss  Milbanke. 

He  has  embodied  this  tradition  in  the  following  ballad,  in 
which  he  represents  the  friar  as  one  of  the  ancient  inmates 
of  the  Abbey,  maintaining  by  night  a  kind  of  spectral  pos- 
session of  it,  in  right  of  the  fraternity.  Other  traditions, 
however,  represent  him  as  one  of  the  friars  doomed  to  war* 


SUPERSTITIONS  OF  THE  ABBEY.  81 

der  about  the  place  in  atonement  for  his  crimes.    But  to  the 
ballad— 

"  Beware!  beware!  of  the  Black  Friar, 

Who  sitteth  by  Norman  stone, 
For  he  mutters  his  prayers  in  the  midnight  air 

And  his  mass  of  the  days  that  are  gone. 
When  the  Lord  of  the  Hill,  Amundeville, 

Made  Norman  Church  his  prey, 
And  expell'd  the  friars,  one  friar  still 

"Would  not  be  driven  away. 

"  Though  he  came  in  his  might,  with  King  Henry's  right, 

To  turn  church  lands  to  lay, 
With  sword  in  hand,  and  torch  to  light 

Their  walls,  if  they  said  nay, 
A  monk  remain'd,  unchased,  unchain'd, 

And  he  did  not  seem  form'd  of  clay, 
For  he's  seen  in  the  porch,  and  he*s  seen  in  the  church. 

Though  he  is  not  seen  by  day.  • 

*'  And  whether  for  good,  or  whether  for  ill, 

It  is  not  mine  to  say: 
But  still  to  the  house  of  Amundeville 

He  abideth  night  and  day. 
By  the  marriage  bed  of  their  lords,  'tis  said, 

He  rlits  on  the  bridal  eve: 
And  'tis  held  as  faith,  to  their  bed  of  death, 

He  comes— but  not  to  grieve. 

"  When  an  heir  is  born,  he  is  heard  to  mourn, 

And  when  aught  is  to  befall 
That  ancient  line,  in  the  pale  moonshine 

He  walks  from  hall  to  hall. 
His  form  you  may  trace,  but  not  his  face, 

'Tis  shadow'd  by  his  cowl; 
But  his  eyes  may  be  seen  from  the  folds  between, 

And  they  seem  of  a  parted  soul. 

''  But  beware:  beware  of  the  Black  Friar, 

He  still  retains  his  sway. 
For  he  is  yet  the  church's  heir, 

Whoever  may  be  the  lay. 
Amundeville  is  lord  by  day, 

But  the  monk  is  lord  by  night, 
Nor  wine  nor  wassail  could  raise  a  vassal 

To  question  that  friar's  right. 

"  Say  nought  to  him  as  he  walks  the  hall, 

And  he'll  say  nought  to  you; 
He  sweeps  along  in  his  dusky  pall, 

As  o'er  the  grass  the  dew. 
Then  gramercyl   for  the  Black  Friar; 

Heaven  sain  him  !  fair  or  foul. 
And  whatsoe'er  may  be  his  prayar 

Let  ours  be  for  his  soul." 


82  NEWSTEAI)  ABBEY. 

Such  is  the  story  of  the  goblin  friar,  which,  partly  through 
old  tradition,  and  partly  through  the  influence  of  Lord  Byron's 
rhymes,  has  become  completely  established  in  the  Abbey,  and 
threatens  to  hold  possession  so  long  as  the  old  edifice  shall  en- 
dure. Various  visitors  have  either  fancied,  or  pretended  to 
have  seen  him,  and  a  cousin  of  Lord  Byron,  Miss  Sally  Parkins, 
is  even  said  to  have  made  a  sketch  of  him  from  memory.  As 
to  the  servants  at  the  Abbey,  they  have  become  possessed  with 
all  kinds  of  superstitious  fancies.  The  long  corridors  and 
Gothic  halls,  with  their  ancient  portraits  and  dark  figures  in 
armor,  are  all  haunted  regions  to  them ;  they  even  fear  to  sleep 
alone,  and  will  scarce  venture  at  night  on  any  distant  errand 
about  the  Abbey  unless  they  go  in  couples. 

Even  the  magnificent  chamber  in  which  I  was  lodged  was 
subject  to  the  supernatural  influences  which  reigned  over  the 
Abbey,  and  was  said  to  be  haunted  by  ' '  Sir  John  Byron  th< 
Littk   with    the    great    Beard."    The    ancient   black-lookin 
portrait  of  this  family  worthy,  which  hangs  over  the  door 
the  great  saloon,  was  said  to  descend  occasionally  at  midnigh 
from  the  frame,  and  walk  the  rounds  of  the  state  apartments 
Nay,  his  visitations  were  not  confined  to  the  night,  for  a  youn 
lady,   on  a  visit   to  the  Abbey  some  years    since,    declar 
that,   on  passing  in  broad  day  by  the  door  of  the  identi 
cal  chamber  I  have  described,  which  stood  partly  open,  shi 
saw  Sir  John  Byron  the  Little  seated  by  the  fireplace,  readin, 
out  of  a  great  black-letter' book.     From  this  circumstance  so: 
have  been  led  to  suppose  that  the  story  of  Sir  John  Byron  ma 
be  in  some  measure  connected  with  the  mysterious  sculpture 
of  the  chimney-piece  already  mentioned ;  but  this  has  no  coun 
tenance  from  the  most  authentic  antiquarians  of  the  Abbey. 

For  my  own  part,  the  moment  I  learned  the  wonderful  storf 
and  strange  suppositions  connected  with  my  apartment,  it  b 
came  an  imaginary  realm  to  me.  As  I  lay  in  bed  at  night  a: 
gazed  at  the  mysterious  panel- work,  where  Gothic  knight,  an 
Christian  dame,  and  Paynim  lover  gazed  upon  me  in  efligy, 
used  to  weave  a  thousand  fancies  concerning  them.  The  g 
figures  in  the  tapestry,  also,  were  almost  animated  by  th 
workings  of  my  imagination,  and  the  Vandyke  portraits  of  th 
cavalier  and  lady  that  looked  down  with  pale  aspects  from  th 
wall,  had  almost  a  spectral  effect,  from  their  immovable 
and  silent  companionship — 

"  For  by  dim  lights  the  portraits  of  the  dead 
Have  something  ghastly,  desolate,  and  dread. 


ANNESLEY  HALL  .83 

Their  buried  looks  stilt  \. 

Alout;  the  canvas:  thwr  eyes  glance  like  dreams 
On  ours,  as  spars  within  some  dusky  cave, 

But  death  is  mingled  iu  their  shadowy  beams." 

In  this  way  I  used  to  conjure  up  fictions  of  the  brain,  and 
clothe  the  objects  around  me  with  ideal  interest  and  import, 
until,  as  the  Abbey  clock  tolled  midnight,  I  almost  looked  to 
see  Sir  John  Byron  the  Little  with  the  long  beard  stalk  into  the 
loom  with  his  book  under  his  arm,  and  take  his  seat  beside  the 
mysterious  chimney-piece. 


ANNESLEY  HALL. 

At  about  three  miles'  distance  from  Newstead  Abbey,  and 
contiguous  to  its  lands,  is  situated  Annesley  Hall,  the  old  family 
mansion  of  the  Chaworths.  The  families,  like  the  estates,  of  the 
Byrons  and  Chaworths,  were  connected  in  former  times,  until 
the  fatal  duel  between  their  two  representatives.  The  feud, 
however,  winch  prevailed  for  a  time,  promised  to  be  cancelled 
by  the  attachment  of  two  youthful  hearts.  While  Lord  Byron 
was  yet  a  boy,  he  beheld  Mary  Ann  Chaworth,  a  beautiful  girl, 
and  the  sole  heiress  of  Annesley.  With  that  susceptibility  to 
female  charms,  which  he  evinced  almost  from  childhood,  he  be- 
came almost  immediately  enamored  of  her.  According  to  one 
of  his  biographers,  it  would  appear  that  at  first  their  attachment 
was  mutual,  yet  clandestine.  The  father  of  Miss  Chaworth  was 
then  living,  and  may  have  retained  somewhat  of  the  family 
hostility,  for  we  are  told  that  the  interviews  of  Lord  Byron  and 
the  3*oung  lady  were  private,  at  a  gate  which  opened  from  her 
father's  grounds  to  those  of  Newstead.  However,  they  were 
so  young  at  the  time  that  these  meetings  could  not  have  been 
regarded  as  of  any  importance:  they  were  little  more  than 
children  in  years;  but,  as  Lord  Byron  says  of  himself,  his  feel- 
ings were  beyond  his  age. 

The  passion  thus  early  conceived  was  blown  into  a  flame, 
during  a  six  weeks'  vacation  which  he  passed  with  his  mother 
at  Nottingham.  The  father  of  M'^s  Chaworth  was  dead,  and 
she  resided  with  her  mother  at  the  old  Hall  of  Annesley.  Dur- 
ing Byron's  minority,  the  estate  of  Newstead  was  let  to  Lord 
Grey  de  Ruthen,  but  its  youthful  Lord  was  always  a  welcome 


S4»  NEW8TEAD  ABBEY. 

guest  at  the  Abbey.  He  would  pass  days  at  a  time  there,  andj 
make  frequent  visits  thence  to  Annesley  Hall.  His  visits  were 
encouraged  by  Miss  Chaworth's  mother ;  she  partook  of  none  on 
the  family  feud,  and  probably  looked  with  complacency  upon] 
an  attachment  that  might  heal  old  differences  and  unite  two! 
neighboring  estates. 

The  six  weeks'  vacation  passed  as  a  dream  amongst  the  beau-j 
tiful  flowers  of  Annesley.  Byron  was  scarce  fifteen  years  of  age, 
Mary  Cha worth  was  two  years  older ;  but  his  heart,  as  I  have] 
said,  was  beyond  his  age,  and  his  tenderness  for  her  was  deep] 
and  passionate.  These  early  loves,  like  the  first  run  of  the  un-j 
crushed  grape,  arc  the  sweetest  and  strongest  gushings  of  the! 
heart,  and  however  they  may  be  superseded  by  other  attach-] 
ments  in  after  years,  the  memory  will  continually  recur  to 
them,  and  fondly  dwell  upon  their  recollections. 

His  love  for  Miss  Chaworth,  to  use  Lord  Byron's  own  expres- 
sion, was  "the  romance  of  the  most  romantic  period  of  his  life," 
and  I  think  we  can  trace  the  effect  of  it  throughout  the  whole 
course  of  his  writings,  coming  up  every  now  and  then,  like] 
some  lurking  theme  which  runs  through  a  complicated  piece  of  j 
music,  and  links  it  all  in  a  pervading  chain  of  melody. 

How  tenderly  and  mournfully  does  he  recall,  in  after  years, 
the  feelings  awakened  in  his  youthful  and  inexperienced  bosom] 
by  this  impassioned,   yet  innocent  attachment;  feelings,   he] 
says,  lost  or  hardened  in  the  intercourse  of  life : 

"The  love  of  better  tilings  and  better  days; 

The  unbounded  hope,  and  heavenly  ignorance 
Of  what  is  called  the  world,  and  the  world's  ways; 

The  moments  when  we  gather  from  a  glance 
More  joy  than  from  all  future  pride  or  praise, 

Which  kindle  manhood,  but  can  ne'er  entrance 
The  heart  in  an  existence  of  its  own, 
Of  which  another's  bosom  is  the  zone." 

Whether  this  love  was  really  responded  to  by  the  object,  is 
uncertain.  Byron  sometimes  speaks  as  if  he  had  met  with' 
kindness  in  return,  at  other  times  he  acknowledges  that  she] 
never  gave  him  reason  to  believe  she  loved  him.  It  is  probable,  \ 
however,  that  at  first  she  experienced  some  flutterings  of  the 
heart.  She  was  of  a  susceptible  age;  had  as  yet  formed  no] 
other  attachments;  her  lover,  though  boyish  in  years,  was  a 
man  in  intellect,  a  poet  in  imagination,  and  had  a  countenance^ 
of  remarkable  beauty. 

With  the  six  weeks'  vacation  ended  this  brief  romance. 
Byron  returned  to  school  deeply  enamored,  but  if  he  had  really 


ANNESLEY  HALL.  85 

made  any  impression  on  Miss  Chaworth's  heart,  it  was  too 
slight  to  stand  the  test  of  absence.  She  was  at  that  age  when 
a  female  soon  changes  from  the  girl  to  a  woman,  and  leaves 
her  boyish  lovers  far  behind  her.  While  Byron  was  pursuing 
his  school-boy  studies,  she  was  mingling  with  society,  and 
met  with  a  gentleman  of  the  name  of  Musters,  remarkable,  it 
is  said,  for  manly  beauty.  A  story  is  told  of  her  having  first 
seen  him  from  the  top  of  Annesley  Hall,  as  he  dashed  through 
the  park,  with  hound  and  horn,  taking  the  lead  of  the  whole 
field  m  a  fox  chase,  and  that  she  was  struck  by  the  spirit  of  his 
appearance,  and  his  admirable  horsemanship.  Under  such 
favorable  auspices,  he  wooed  and  won  her,  and  when  Lord 
Byron  next  met  her,  he  learned  to  his  dismay  that  she  was  the 
affianced  bride  of  another. 

With  that  pride  of  spirit  which  always  distinguished  him, 
he  controlled  his  feelings  and  maintained  a  serene  countenanceo 
He  even  affected  to  speak  calmly  on  the  subject  of  her  ap- 
proaching nuptials.  k'The  next  time  I  see  you,"  said  he,  "I 
suppose  you  will  be  Mrs.  Chaworth"  (for  she  was  to  retain  her 
family  name).     Her  reply  was,  "  I  hope  so." 

I  have  given  these  brief  details  preparatory  to  a  sketch  of  a 
visit  which  I  made  to  the  scene  of  this  youthful  romance.  An- 
nesley Hall  I  understood  was  shut  up,  neglected,  and  almost 
in  a  state  of  desolation:  for  Mr.  Musters  rarely  visited  it,  resid- 
ing with  his  family  in  the  neighborhood  of  Nottingham.  I  set 
out  for  the  Hall  on  horseback,  in  company  with  Colonel  Wild- 
man,  and  followed  by  the  great  Newfoundland  dog  Boatswain. 
In  the  course  of  our  ride  we  visited  a  spot  memorable  in  the 
love  story  I  have  cited.  It  was  the  scene  of  this  parting  inter- 
view betAveen  Byron  and  Miss  Chaworth,  prior  to  her  marriage. 
A  long  ridge  of  upland  advances  into  the  valley  of  Newstead, 
like  a  promontory  into  a  lake,  and  was  formerly  crowned  by  a 
beautiful  grove,  a  landmark  to  the  neighboring  country.  The 
grove  and  promontory  are  graphically  described  by  Lord  Byron 
in  his  "  Dream."  and  an  exquisite  picture  given  of  himself, 
the  lovely  object  of  Ins  boyish  idolatry— 

"I  sav  two  beings  ho  the  hues  of  youth 
Standing  upon  a  hill.  a  gentle  hill, 
Green,  and  of  mild  declivity,  the  last 
As  'twere  the  cape  of  a  long  ridge  of  such, 
Save  that  there  186, 

But  a  most  living  landscape,  and  the  wave 
Of  woods  and  corn  fields,  and  the  abodes  of  men, 
Scattered  at  intervals,  '\nt\  \\  reathing  smoke 


36  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY. 

Arising  from  such  rustic  roofs:— the  hill 
Was  crown'd  with  a  peculiar  diadem 
Of  trees,  in  circular  array,  so  fixed, 
Not  by  the  sport  of  nature,  but  of  man: 
These  two,  a  maiden  and  a  youth,  were  there 
Gazing— the  one  on  all  that  was  beneath 
Fair  as  herself -but  the  boy  gazed  on  her; 
And  both  were  fair,  and  one  was  beautiful: 
And  both  were  young— yet  not  alike  in  youth: 
As  the  sweet  in  "Hi  in  the  horizon's  verge, 
The  maid  was  on  the  verge  of  womanhood; 
The  boy  had  fewer  summers,  but  his  heart 
Had  far  outgrown  his  years,  and  to  his  eye 
There  was  but  one  beloved  face  on  earth, 
And  that  was  shining  on  him." 

I  stood  upon  the  spot  consecrated  by  this  memorable  intei 
view.     Below  me  extended  the  "living  landscape,"  once  coi 
tempi  at  ed  by  the  loving  pair;  the  gentle  valley  of  New  stead,1 
diversified  by  woods  and  corn-fields,  and  village  spires,  and 
gleams  of  water,  and  the  distant  towers  and  pinnacles  of  the  ] 
venerable  Abbey.     The  diadem  of  trees,  however,  was  gone. 
The  attention  drawn  to  it  by  the  poet,  and  the  romantic  man- 
ner in  which  he  had  associated  it  with  his  early  passion  for 
Mary  Chaworth,  had  nettled  the  irritable  feelings  of  her  hus-j 
band,  who  but  ill  brooked  the  poetic  celebrity  conferred  on  his 
wife  by  the  enamored  verses  of  another.     The  celebrated  grove 
stood  on  his  estate,  and  in  a  fit  of  spleen  he  ordered  it  to  be: 
levelled  with  the  clust.     At  the  time  of  my  visit  the  mere  roots ; 
of  the  trees  were  visible:  but  the  hand  that  laid  them  low  isj 
execrated  by  every  poetical  pilgrim. 

Descending  the  hill,  we  soon  entered  a  part  of  what  once  was^ 
Annesley  Park,  and  rode  among  time-worn  and  tempest-riven 
oaks  and  elms,  with  ivy  clambering  about  their  trunks,  and 
rooks'  nests  among  their  branches.     The  park  had  been  cut  up< 
by  a  post-road,  crossing  which,  we  came  to  the  gate-house  of 
Annesley  Hall.     It  was  an  old  brick  building  that  might  have 
served  as  an  outpost  or  barbacan  to  the  Hall  during  the  cr 
wars,  when  every  gentleman's  house  was  liable  to  become 
fortress.     Loopholes  were  still  visible  in  its  walls,   but  the 
peaceful  ivy  had  mantled  the  sides,  overrun  the  roof,  and  almost 
buried  the  ancient  clock  in  front,  that  still  marked  the  waning 
hours  of  its  decay. 

An  arched  way  led  through  the  centre  of  the  gate-house, 
secured  by  grated  doors  of  open  iron  work,  wrought  into  flow- 
ers and  flourishes.  These  being  thrown  open,  we  entered 
paved  court-yard,  decorated  with  shrubs  and  antique  flowei 


Ah'NESLET  HALL.  87 

bots,  with  a  ruined  stone  fountain  in  the  centre.  The  whole 
approach  resembled  that  of  an  old  French  chateau. 

On  one  side  of  the  court-yard  was  a  range  of  stables,  now 
fcenantless,  but  which  bore  traces  of  the  fox-hunting  squire; 
for  there  were  stalls  boxed  up,  into  which  the  hunters  inighb 
be  turned  loose  when  they  came  home  from  the  chase. 

At  the  lower  end  of  the  court,  and  immediately  opposite  the 
gate-house,  extended  the  Hall  itself;  a  rambling,  irregular  pile, 
batched  and  pieced  at  various  times,  and  in  various  tastes, 
with  gable  ends,  stone  balustrades,  and  enormous  chimneys, 
that  strutted  out  like  buttresses  from  the  walls.  The  whole 
front  of  the  edifice  was  overrun  with  evergreens. 

We  applied  for  admission  at  the  front  door,  which  was  under 
a  heavy  porch.  The  portal  was  strongly  barricaded,  and  ouf 
knocking  was  echoed  by  waste  and  empty  hails.  Every  thing 
bore  an  .appearance  of  abandonment.  After  a  time,  however, 
our  knocking  summoned  a  solitary  tenant  from  some  remote 
corner  of  the  pile.  It  was  a  decent-looking  little  dame,  who 
emerged  from  a  side  door  at  a  distance,  and  seemed  a  worthy 
inmate  of  the  antiquated  mansion.  She  had,  in  fact,  grown  old 
with  it.  Her  name,  she  said,  was  Nanny  Marsden ;  if  she  lived 
until  next  August,  she  would  be  seventy-one ;  a  great  part  of 
her  life  had  been  passed  in  the  Hall,  and  when  the  family  had 
removed  to  Nottingham,  she  had  been  left  in  charge  of  it.  The 
front  of  the  house  had  been  thus  warily  barricaded  in  conse- 
quence of  the  late  riots  at  Nottingham,  in  the  course  of  which 
the  dwelling  of  her  master  had  been  sacked  by  the  mob.  To 
guard  against  any  attempt  of  the  kind  upon  the  Hall,  she  had 
put  it  in  this  state  of  defence ;  though  I  rather  think  she  and  a 
superannuated  gardener  comprised  the  whole  garrison.  "You 
must  be  attached  to  the  old  building,"  said  I,  "after  having 
lived  so  long  in  it."  "Ah,  sir!"  replied  she,  "lam  getting  in 
yea  is.  and  have  a  furnished  cottage  of  my  own  in  Annesley 
Wood,  and  begin  to  feel  as  if  I  should  like  to  go  and  live  in  my 
own  home." 

Guided  by  the  worthy  little  custodian  of  the  fortress,  we 
entered  through  the  sally  port  by  which  she  had  issued  forth, 
and  soon  found  ourselves  in  a  spacious,  but  somewhat  gloomy 
hall,  where  the  light  was  partially  admitted  through  square 
stone  -  shafted  windows,  overhung  with  ivy.  Everything 
around  us  had  the  air  of  an  old-fashioned  country  squire's 
establishment.  In  the  centre  of  the  hall  was  a  billiard-table, 
and  about   the  walls  were   hung   portraits  of   race  -  horses. 


j^8  wstead  abbey. 

liunters,   and  favorite    dogs,   mingled    indiscriminately  with 
family  pictures. 

Staircases  led  up  from  the  hall  to  various  apartments.  In 
one  of  the  rooms  we  were  shown  a  couple  of  buff  jerkins,  and 
a  pair  of  ancient  jackboots,  of  the  time  of  the  cavaliers;  relics 
which  are  often  to  be  met  with  in  tho  old  English  family  man- 
.  however,  had  peculiar  value,  for  the  good  little 
mred  us  that  they  had  belonged  to  Robin  Hood.  M 
we  were  in  the  midst  of  the  region  over  which  that  famous  out 
law  once  bore  ruffian  sway,  it  was  not  for  us  to  gainsay  his 
claim  to  any  of  these  venerable  relics,  though  we  might  have 
demurred  that  the  articles  of  dress  here  shown  were  of  a  date 
much  later  than  his  time.  Every  antiquity,  however,  about 
Sherwood  Forest  is  apt  to  be  linked  with  the  memory  of  Robii 
Hood  and  his  gang. 

As  we  were  strolling  about  the  mansion,  our  four-footed  at 
U  ndant,  I  n,  followed  leisurely,  as  if  taking  a  survey  of] 

the  premises.  I  turned  to  rebuke  him  for  his  intrusion,  but  the} 
moment  the  old  housekeeper  understood  he  had  belonged  to< 
Lord  Byron,  her  heart  seemed  to  yearn  toward  him. 

" Nay,  nay," exclaimed  she,  "let  him  alone,  let  him  go  where j 
he  pleases.     He's  welcome.     Ah,  dear  me!    If  he  lived  here 
should  take  great  care  of  him— he  should  want  for  nothing. 
Well!"  continued  she,  fondling  him,  "who  would  have  thought 
that  I  should  see  a  dog  of  Lord  Byron  in  Annesley  Hall !" 

"I  suppose,  then."  said  I,  "you  recollect  something  of  Loi 
on,  when  he  used  to  visit  here?"  "Ah,  bless  him!"  criee 
she,  "that  I  do!  He  use'd  to  ride  over  here  and  stay  thre 
days  at  a  time,  and  sleep  in  the  blue  room.  Ah !  poor  fellow  | 
He  was  very  much  taken  with  my  young  mistress ;  he  used  t( 
walk  about  the  garden  and  the  terraces  with  her,  and  seemec 
to  love  the  very  ground  she  trod  on.  He  used  to  call  her  hu 
b i  •  igh  t  morning  star  of  Ann  esley. ' ' 

I  felt  the  beautiful  poetic  phrase  thrill  through  me. 

'You  appear  to  like  the  memory  of  Lord  Byron,"  said  I. 

"  Ah,  sir!  why  should  not  I!  He  was  always  main  good 
me  when  he  came  here.  Well,  well,  they  say  it  is  a  pity  he 
and  my  young  lady  did  not  make  a  match.  Her  mother  woulc 
have  liked  it.  He  was  always  a  welcome  guest,  and  some  thinl 
it  would  have  been  well  for  him  to  have  had  her;  but  it  wi 
not  to  be !  He  went  away  to  school,  and  then  Mr.  Musters  sa^ 
her,  and  so  things  took  their  course. " 

The  simple  soul  now  showed  us  into  the  favorite  sittine:-rooi 


ANNESLEY  HALL.  89 

of  Miss  Chaworth,  with  a  small  flower-garden  under  the  win- 
dows, in  which  she  had  delighted.  In  this  room  Byron  used 
to  sit  and  listen  to  her  as  she  played  and  sang,  gazing  upon  her 
with  the  passionate,  and  almost  painful  devotion  of  a  love-siek 
stripling.  He  himself  gives  us  a  glowing  picture  of  his  mute 
idolatry : 

"  He  had  no  breath,  no  being,  but  in  hi 
She  was  his  voice;  he  did  not  speak  to  her, 
ButHrembled  on  her  words;  she  was  his  sight, 
For  his  eye  followed  hers,  and  saw  with  hers, 
Which  colored  all  his  objects;  he  had  ceased 
To  live  within  himself;  she  was  his  life, 
The  ocean  to  the  river  of  his  thoughts, 
Which  terminated  all:  upon  a  tone, 
A  touch  of  hers,  his  blood  would  ebb  and  flow, 
And  his  cheek  change  tempestuously— his  heart 
Unknowing  of  its  cause  of  agony." 

There  was  a  little  Welsh  air,  call  ' '  Mary  Ann, "  which,  from 
bearing  her  own  name,  he  associated  with  herself,  and  often 
persuaded  her  to  sing  it  over  and  over  for  him. 

The  chamber,  like  all  the  other  parts  of  the  house,  had  a  look 
of  sadness  and  neglect ;  the  floAver-pots  beneath  the  window, 
which  once  bloomed  beneath  the  hand  of  Mary  Chaworth,  were 
overrun  with  weeds ;  and  the  piano,  which  had  once  vibrated 
to  her  touch,  and  thrilled  the  heart  of  her  stripling  lover,  was 
now  unstrung  and  out  of  tune. 

We  continued  our  stroll  about  the  waste  apartments,  of  all 
shapes  and  sizes,  and  without  much  elegance  of  decoration. 
Some  of  them  were  hung  with  family  portraits,  among  which 
was  pointed  out  that  of  the  Mr.  Chaworth  who  was  killed  by 
the  "wicked  Lord  Byron." 

These  dismal  looking  portraits  had  a  powerful  effect  upon 
the  imagination  of  the  stripling  poet,  on  his  first  visit  to  the 
hall.  As  they  gazed  down  from  the  wall,  he  thought  they 
scowled  upon  him,  as  if  they  had  taken  a  grudge  against  him 
on  account  of  the  duel  of  his  ancestor.  He  even  gave  this  as  a 
reason,  though  probably  in  jest,  for  not  sleeping  at  the  Hall, 
declaring  that  he  feared  they  woidd  come  down  from  their 
frames  at  night  to  haunt  him. 

A  feeling  of  the  kind  he  has  embodied  in  one  of  his  stanzas 
of  "Don  Juan:" 

"The  forms  of  the  grim  knights  and  pictured  saints 
Look  living  in  the  moon:  and  as  you  turn 

Backward  and  forward  to  th shoes  faint 

Of  yom-  own  footsteps  —voices  from  the  urn 


90  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY. 

Appear  to  wake,  and  shadows  wild  and  quaint 

Start  from  the  frames  which  fence  their  aspects 
As  if  to  ask  you  how  you  dare  to  keep 
A  vigil  there,  where  all  but  death  should  sleep." 


Nor  was  the'y outhf id  poet  singular  in  these  fancies ;  the  Hi 
like  most  old  English  mansions  that  have  ancient  family  pc 
traits  hanging  about  their  dusky  galleries  and  waste  apai 
mente,  had  its  ghost  story  connected  with  these  pale  memorie 
of  the  dead.     Our  simple-hearted  conductor  stopped  before  th< 
portrait  of  a  lady,  who  had  been  a  beauty  in  her  time,  and  in] 
habited  the  hall  in  the  heyday  of  her  charms.   Something  mys 
terious  or  melancholy  was  connected  with  her  story ;  she  diec 
young,  but  continued  for  a  long  time  to  haunt  the  anciei 
mansion,  to  the  great  dismay  of  the  servants,  and  the  oc( 
sionaJ  disquiet  of  the  visitors,  and  it  was  with  much  difficulty 
her  troubled  spirit  was  conjured  down  and  put  to  rest. 

From  the  rear  of  the  hall  we  walked  out  into  the  garden, 
about  which  Byron  used  to  stroll  and  loiter  in  company  wit! 
M  iss  Chaworth.   It  was  laid  out  in  the  old  French  style.   Thei 
was  a  long  terraced  walk,  with  heavy  stone  balustrades  anc 
sculptured  urns,  overrun  with  ivy  and  evergreens.     A  neg 
lected  shrubbery  bordered  one  side  of  the  terrace,  with  a  loftj 
grove  inhabited  by  a  venerable  community  of  rooks.     Gvee 
nights  of  steps  led  down  from  the  terrace  to  a  flower  gardei 
laid  out  in  formal  plots.     The  rear  of  the  Hall,  which  ovei 
looked  the  garden,  had  the  weather  stains  of  centuries,  and  it 
stone-shafted  casements  land  an  ancient  sun-dial  against 
walls  carried  back  the  mind  to  days  of  yore. 

The  retired  and  quiet  garden,  once  a  little  sequestered  work 
of  love  and  romance,  was  now  all  matted  and  wild,  yet  wf 
beautiful,  even  in  its  decay.     Its  air  of  neglect  and  desolatioi 
was  in  unison  with  the  fortune  of  the  two  beings  who  had  one 
walked  here  in  the  freshness  of  youth,  and  life,  and  beauty. 
The  garden,  like  their  young  hearts,  had  gone  to  waste  anc 
ruin. 

Returning  to  the  Hall  we  now  visited  a  chamber  built  over 
the  porch,  or  grand  entrance.     It  was  in  a  ruinous  conditioi 
the  ceiling  having  fallen  in  and  the  floor  given  way.     Thi 
however,  is  a  chamber  rendered  interesting  by  poetical  as 
ciations.     It  is  supposed  to  be  the  oratory  alluded  to  by  Loi 
Byron  in  his  "Dream,1'  wherein  he  pictures  his  departure  froi 
Annesley,  after  learning  that  Mary  Chaworth  was  engaged 
be  married — 


ANNESLEY  HALL.  91 

'  There  was  an  ancient  mansion,  and  before 
Its  walls  there  was  a  steed  caparisoned ; 
Within  an  antique  oratory  stood 
The  boy  of  whom  I  spake ;— he  was  alone, 
And  pale  and  pacing  to  and  fro :  anon 
He  sate  him  down,  and  seized  a  pen,  and  traced 
Words  which  I  could  not  guess  of;  then  he  leaned 
His  bow'd  head  on  his  hands,  and  shook  as  'twere 
With  a  convulsion— then  arose  again, 
And  with  his  teeth  and  quivering  hands  did  tear 
What  he  had  written,  but  he  shed  no  tears. 
And  he  did  calm  himself,  and  fix  his  brow 
Into  a  kind  of  quiet;  as  he  paused, 
The  lady  of  his  love  re-entered  there ; 
She  was  serene  and  smiling  then,  and  yet 
She  knew  she  was  by  him  beloved,— she  knew, 
For  quickly  comes  such  knowledge,  that  his  heart 
Was  darkened  with  her  shadow,  and  she  saw 
That  he  was  wretched,  but  she  saw  not  all. 
He  rose,  and  with  a  cold  and  gentle  grasp 
He  took  her  hand;  a  moment  o'er  his  face 
A  tablet  of  unutterable  thoughts 
Was  traced,  and  then  it  faded  as  it  came; 
He  dropp'd  the  hand  he  held,  and  with  slow  steps 
Return'd,  but  not  as  bidding  her  adieu, 
For  they  did  part  with  mutual  smiles:— he  pass'd 
From  out  the  massy  gate  of  that  old  Hall, 
And  mounting  on  his  steed  he  went  his  way, 
Aud  ne'er  repassed  that  hoary  threshold  more." 

In  one  of  his  journals,  Lord  Byron  describes  his  feelings  after 
thus  leaving  the  oratory.  Arriving  on  the  summit  of  a  hill, 
which  commanded  the  last  view  of  Annesley,  he  checked  his 
horse,  and  gazed  back  with  mingled  pain  and  fondness  upon 
the  groves  which  embowered  the  Hall,  and  thought  upon  the 
lovely  being  that  dwelt  there,  until  his  feelings  were  quite  «lis- 
solved  in  tenderness.  The  conviction  at  length  recurred  that 
she  never  could  be  his,  when,  rousing  himself  from  his  reverie, 
he  struck  his  spurs  into  his  steed  and  dashed  forward,  as  if  by 
rapid  motion  to  leave  reflection  behind  him. 

Yet,  notwithstanding  what  he  asserts  in  the  verses  last 
quoted,  he  did  pass  the  "hoary  threshold ''  of  Annesley  again. 
It  was,  however,  after  the  lapse  of  several  years,  during  which 
he  had  grown  up  to  manhood,  and  had  passed  through  the 
Ordeal  of  pleasures  and  tumultuous  passions,  and  had  felt  the 
influence  of  other  charms.  Miss  Chaworth,  too,  had  become  a 
wife  and  a  mother,  and  he  dined  at  Annesley  Hall  at  the  invi- 
tation of  her  husband.  He  thus  met  the  object  of  his  early 
idolatry  in  the  very  scene  of  his  tender  devotions,  which,  as 
he  says,  her  smiles  had  once  made  a  heaven  to  him.     The 


92 


NMWSTEAD  abbey. 


scene  was  but  little  changed.  He  was  in  the  very  chamber 
where  he  had  so  often  listened  entranced  to  the  witchery  of 
her  voice ;  there  were  the  same  instruments  and  music ;  there 
lay  her  flower  garden  beneath  the  window,  and  the  walks 
through  which  he  had  wandered  with  her  in  the  intoxication 
of  youthful  love.  Can  we  wonder  that  amidst  the  tender 
recollections  which  every  object  around  him  was  calculated 
to  awaken,  the  fond  passion  of  his  boyhood  should  rush  back 
in  full  current  to  his  heart?  He  was  himself  surprised  at  this 
sudden  revulsion  of  his  feelings,  but  he  had  acquired  self-pos- 
session and  could  command  them.  His  firmness,  however,  was 
doomed  to  undergo  a  further  trial.  While  seated  by  the  ob- 
ject of  his  secret  devotions,  with  all  these  recollections  throb- 
bing in  his  bosom,  her  infant  daughter  was  brought  into  the 
room.  At  sight  of  the  child  he  started ;  it  dispelled  the  last 
lingerings  of  his  dream,  and  he  afterward  confessed,  that  to 
repress  his  emotion  at  the  moment,  was  the  severest  part  of 
his  task. 

The  conflict  of  feelings  that  raged  within  his  bosom  through- 
out this  fond  and  tender,  yet  painful  and  embarrassing  visit, 
are  touchingly  depicted  in  lines  which  he  wrote  immediately 
afterward,  and  which,  though  not  addressed  to  her  by  name, 
are  evidently  intended  for  the  eye  and  the  heart  of  the  fair  lady 
of  Annesley : 

"  Well !  thou  art  happy,  and  I  feel 
That  I  should  thus  be  happy  too; 
For  still  my  heart  regards  thy  weal 
Warmly,  as  it  was  wont  to  do. 

Thy  husband's  blest— and  'twill  impart 

Some  pangs  to  view  his  happier  lot: 
But  let  them  pass— Oh !  how  my  heart 

Would  hate  him,  if  he  loved  thee  notl 

"  When  late  I  saw  thy  favorite  child 

I  thought  my  jealous  heart  would  break; 
But  when  the  unconscious  infant  smiled, 
I  kiss'd  it  for  its  mother's  sake. 

"  I  kiss'd  it,  and  repress'd  my  sighs 
Its  father  in  its  face  to  see; 
But  then  it  had  its  mother's  eyes, 
And  they  were  all  to  love  and  me. 


Mary,  adieu!  I  must  away: 

While  thou  art  blest  I'll  not  repine; 
But  near  thee  I  can  never  slay: 

My  heart  would  soon  again  be  thine. 


AX  J!  ALL.  93 

"I  decm'd  tliat  time.  I  deem'd  that  pride 
Had  quench'd  at  length  my  boyish  flame; 

Nor  knew,  till  seated  by  thy  side, 
My  heart  in  all,  save  love,  the  same. 

"  Yet  I  was  calm:  I  knew  the  time 

My  breast,  would  thrill  before  thy  look; 
But  now  to  tremble  were  a  crime— 
We  met.  and  not  a  nerve  was  shook. 

"I  saw  thee  gaze  upon  my  face, 

Yet  meet  with  no  confusion  there  : 
One  only  feeling  couldst  thou  trace; 
The  sullen  calmness  of  despair. 

"  Away !  away !  my  early  dream 

Remembrance  ne^  er  must  awake  : 
Oh!  where  is  Lethe's  fabled  stream? 
My  foolish  heart,  be  still,  or  break." 

The  revival  of  this  early  passion,  and  the  melancholy  asso- 
ciations which  it  spread  over  those  scenes  in  the  neighborhood 
of  Newstead,  which  would  necessarily  be  the  places  of  his  fre- 
quent resort  while  in  England,  are  alluded  to  by  him  as  a  prin- 
cipal cause  of  his  first  departure  for  the  Continent : 

'•  When  man  expell'd  from  Eden*s  bowers 

A  moment  lingered  near  the  gate. 

Each  scene  recalled  the  vanished  hours, 

And  bade  him  curse  his  future  fate. 

"  But  wandering  on  through  distant  climes, 
He  learnt  to  bear  his  load  of  grief; 
Just  gave  a  sigh  to  other  times, 
And  found  in  busier  scenes  relief. 

'•  Thus.  Mary,  must  it  be  with  me, 

And  I  must  view  thy  charms  no  more; 
For,  while  I  linger  near  to  thee, 
I  sigh  for  all  I  knew  before." 

It  was  in  the  subsequent  June  that  he  set  off  on  his  pilgrim- 
age by  sea  and  land,  which  was  to  become  the  theme  of  his  im- 
mortal poem.  That  the  image  of  Mar}'  Chaworth,  as  he  saw 
and  loved  her  in  the  days  of  his  boyhood,  followed  him  to  the 
very  shore,  is  shown  in  the  glowing  stanzas  addressed  to  her 
on  the  eve  of  embarkation — 

•'  'Tis  done— and  shivering  in  the  gale 

The  bark  unfurls  her  snowy  sail: 
.  And  whistling  o'er  the  bending  mast, 

\  Loud  sincrs  on  niirh  the  t'resh'ning  blast; 

And  I  must  from  this  land  be  gone, 

Because  I  cannot  love  but  one. 


94  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY. 

11  And  I  will  cross  the  whitening  foam, 
And  I  will  seek  a  foreign  home; 
Till  I  forget  a  false  fair  face, 
1  ne'er  shall  hud  a  resting  place; 
My  own  dark  thoughts  I  cannot  shun, 
But  ever  love,  and  love  but  one. 

"  To  think  of  every  early  scene, 
of  what  we  are.  and  what  we've  been, 
Would  whelm  some  softer  hearts  with  woe-= 
But  mine,  alas!  has  stood  the  blow; 
Yet  still  beats  on  as  it  begun. 
And  never  truly  loves  but  one. 

"  And  who  that  dear  loved  one  may  be 
Is  not  for  vulgar  eyes  to  see. 
And  why  that  early  love  was  cross'd. 
Thou  know'st  the  best,  I  feel  the  most; 
But  few  that  dwell  beneath  the  sun 

loved  so  long,  and  loved  but  one. 

"I've  tried  another's  fetters  too, 
\\  itli  charms,  perchance,  as  fair  to  view; 
And  1  would  fain  have  loved  as  well, 
But  some  unconquerable  spell 
Forbade  my  bleeding  breast  to  own 
A  kindred  care  for  aught  but  one. 

"  'T would  soothe  to  take  one  lingering  view, 
Ami  bless  thee  in  my  last  adieu; 
Yci  wish  1  ii"t  those  eyes  to  weep 
For  him  who  wanders  o'er  the  deep; 
His  home,  his  hope,  bis  youth  are  gone, 
Vet  still  he  Loves,  and  loves  but  one." 


The  painful  interview  at  Anneslcy  Hall,  Avhich  revived  with 
such  intenseness  his  early  passion,  remained  stamped  upon  his? 
memory  with  singular  force,  and  seems  to  have  survived  all 
his  "wandering  through  distant  climes, "  to  winch  he  trusted 
as  an  oblivious  antidote.  Upward  of  two  years  after  that 
event,  when,  having  made  his  famous  pilgrimage,  he  was  once 
more  an  inmate  of  Newstead  Abbey,  his  vicinity  to  Annesley 
Hall  brought  the  whole  scene  vividly  before  him,  and  he  thus 
recalls  it  in  a  poetic  epistle  to  a  friend— 

"  I've  seen  my  bride  another's  bride, — 
Have  seen  her  seated  by  his  side, — 
Have  seen  the  infant  which  she  bore, 
Wear  the  sweet  smile  the  mother  wore, 
When  she  and  I  in  youth  have  smiled 
As  fond  and  faultless  as  her  child  : — 
Have  seen  her  eyes,  in  cold  disdain, 
Ask  if  I  felt  no  secret  pain. 


ANNESLKY  IIALL  95 

•*  And  T  have  acted  well  my  part, 
And  made  my  cheek  belie  my  heart. 
Returned  the  freezing  glance  she  gave, 

Yet  felt  the  while  that  woman's  slave; — 
Have  kiss'd,  as  it  without  design. 
The  babe  which  ought  to  have  been  mine, 
And  show'd.  alas:  in  each  caress, 
Time  had  not  made  me  love  the  less." 

"It  was  about  the  time,"  says  Moore  in  his  life  of  Lord 
Byron,  ''when  he  was  thus  bitterly  feeling  and  expressing 
the  blight  which  his  heart  had  suffered  from  a  real  object 
of  affection,  that  his  poems  on  an  imaginary  one,  '  Thyrza , ' 
were  written/'  He  was  at  the  same  time  grieving  over  the 
loss  of  several  of  his  earliest  and  dearest  friends  the  com- 
panions of  his  joyous  school -boy  hours.  To  recur  to  the 
beautiful  language  of  Moore,  who  writes  with  the  kindred 
and  kmdling  sympathies  of  a  true  poet :  ' '  All  these  recol- 
lections of  the  young  and  the  dead  mingled  themselves 
in  his  mind  with  the  image  of  her,  who,  though  living,  was 
for  him,  as  much  lost  as  they,  and  diffused  that  general  feel- 
ing of  sadness  and  fondness  through  his  soul,  which  found  a 
a  vent  in  these  poems.  ...  It  was  the  blending  of  the  two 
affections  in  his  memory  and  imagination,  that  gave  birth  to 
an  ideal  object  combining  the  best  features  of  both,  and  drew 
from  him  those  saddest  and  tenderest  of  love  poems,  in  which 
we  find  all  the  depth  and  intensity  of  real  feeling,  touched  over 
with  such  a  light  as  no  reality  ever  wore. " 

An  early,  innocent,  and  unfortunate  passion,  however  fruit- 
ful of  pain  it  may  be  to  the  man,  is  a  lasting  advantage  to  the 
poet.  It  is  a  well  of  sweet  and  bitter  fancies ;  of  refined  and 
gentle  sentiments:  of  elevated  and  ennobling  thoughts ;  shut  up 
in  the  deep  recesses  of  the  heart,  keeping  it  green  amidst  the 
withering  blights  of  the  world,  and.  by  its  casual  gushings  and 
overflowings,  recalling  at  times  all  the  freshness,  and  inno- 
cence, and  enthusiasm  of  youthful  days.  Lord  Byr<  >n  was  con- 
scious of  this  effect,  and  purposely  cherished  and  brooded  over 
the  remembrance  of  his  early  passion,  and  of  all  the  scenes  of 
Annesley  Hall  connected  with  it.  It  was  this  remembrance 
that  attuned  his  mind  to  some  of  its  most  elevated  and  virtuous 
strains,  and  shed  an  inexpressible  grace  and  pathos  over  his 
best  productions. 

Being  thus  put  upon  the  traces  of  this  little  love-story,  I  can- 
not refrain  from  threading  them  out.  as  they  appear  from  time 
to  time  in  various  passages  of  Lord  Byron's  works.     During 


96  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY. 

his  subsequent  rambles  in  the  East,  when  time  and  distance 
had  softened  away  his  u  early  romance"  almost  into  the  remem- 
brance of  a  pleasing-  and  tender  dream,  lie  received  accounts  of 
the  object  of  it,  which  represented  her,  still  in  her  paternal 
Hall,  among  her  native  bowers  of  Annesley,  surrounded  by  a 
blooming  and  beautiful  family,  yet  a  prey  to  secret  and  wither 
ing  melancholy— 

'•  In  her  home, 

A  thousand  Leagues  from  his,-  her  native  home, 
She  dwelt,  begirt  with  growing  infancy, 
Daughters  and  ions  of  beauty,  but— behold  I 

Upon  Ik  r  face  there  was  tli  •  tint  of  grief, 
The  settled  shadow  of  an  inward  strife, 
And  an  unquiet  drooping  of  the  eye, 

,ts  lidg  in  ii   charred  icith  unsticd  tears." 

For  an  instant  the  buried  tenderness  of  early  youth  and  the 
fluttering  hopes  which  accompanied  it,"  seemed  to  have  revived 
in  his  bosom,  and  the  idea  to  have  flashed  upon  his  mind  that 
his  image  might  be  connected  with  her  secret  woes — but  he 
rejected  the  thought  almost  as  soon  as  formed. 

"  What  could  her  grief  be?— she  had  all  she  loved, 
And  he  who  had  so  loved  her  was  not  there 
To  trouble  with  bad  hopes,  or  evil  wish, 
Or  ill  repiv-s'.i  affect  ion,  her  pure  thoughts. 
What  could  her  grief  be?— she  had  loved  him  not, 
Nor  given  him  cause  to  deem  himself  beloved, 
Nor  could  he  be  a  part  of  that  which  prey'd 
Upon  her  mind— a  spectre  of  the  past." 

The  cause  of  her  grief  was  a  matter  of  rural  comment  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Newstead  and  Annesley.  It  was  disconnected 
from  all  idea  of  Lord  Byron,  but  attributed  to  the  harsh  and 
capricious  conduct  of  one  to  whose  kindness  and  affection  she 
had  a  sacred  claim.  The  domestic  sorrows  which  had  long 
preyed  in  secret  on  her  heart,  at  length  affected  her  intellect, 
and  the  ''bright  morning  star  of  Annesley"  was  eclipsed  for 
ever. 

"  The  lady  of  his  love,— oh!  she  was  changed 
As  by  the  sickness  of  the  soul;  her  mind 
Had  wandered  from  its  dwelling,  and  her  eyes, 
They  had  not  their  own  lustre,  but  the  look 
Which  is  not  of  the  earth;  she  was  become 
The  queen  of  a  fantastic  realm:  but  her  thoughts. 
Were  combinations  of  disjointed  things; 
And  forms  impalpable  and  unperceived 
Of  others'  sight,  familiar  were  to  hers. 
And  this  the  world  calls  frenzy." 


ANNESLEY  HALL.  97 

Notwithstanding  lapse  of  time,  change  of  place,  and  a  suc- 
cession of  splendid  and  spirit-stirring  scenes  in  various  coun- 
tries, the  quiet  and  gentle  scene  of  his  boyish  love  seems  to 
have  held  a  magic  sway  over  the  recollections  of  Lord  Byron, 
and  the  image  of  Mary  Chaworth  to  have  unexpectedly  ob- 
truded itself  upon  his  mind  like  some  supernatural  visitation. 
Such  was  the  fact  on  the  occasion  of  his  marriage  With  Miss 
Milbanke ;  Annesley  Hall  and  all  its  fond  associations  floated 
like  a  vision  before  his  thoughts,  even  when  at  the  altar,  and 
on  the  point  of  pronouncing  the  nuptial  vows.  The  circum- 
stance is  related  by  him  with  a  force  and  feeling  that  persuade 
us  of  its  truth. 

"  A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream. 
The  wanderer  was  returned.— I  saw  him  stand 
Before  an  altar— with  a  gentle  bride; 
Her  face  was  fair,  but  was  not  that  which  made 
The  star-light  of  his  boyhood:— as  he  stood 
Even  at  the  altar,  o'er  his  brow  there  came 
The  self-same  aspect,  and  the  quivering  shock 
That  in  the  antique  oratory  shook 
His  bosom  in  its  solitude;  and  then— 
As  in  that  hour— a  moment  o'er  his  face 
The  tablet  of  unutterable  thoughts 
Was  traced.— and  then  it  faded  as  it  came, 
And  he  stood  calm  and  quiet,  and  he  spoke 
The  fitting  vows,  but  beard  not  his  own  words, 
And  all  things  reel'd  around  him:  he  could  see 
Not  that  which  was.  nor  that  which  should  liave  been — 
But  the  old  mansion,  and  the  accustomed  hall, 
And  the  remember'd  chambers,  and  the  plac 
The  day,  the  hour,  the  sunshine,  and  the  shade, 
All  things  pertaining  to  that  place  and  hour, 

And  her  who  was  his  destiny,  came  back, 

And  thrust  themselves  between  him  and  the  light: 

What  business  had  they  there  at  such  a  time?" 

The  history  of  Lord  Byron's  union  is  too  well  known  to  need 
narration.  The  errors,  and  humiliations,  and  heart-burnings 
that  followed  upon  it,  gave  additional  effect  to  the  remem- 
brance of  his  early  passion,  and  tormented  him  with  the  idea, 
that  had  he  been  successful  in  his  suit  to  the  lovely  heiress 
of  Annesley,  they  might  both  have  shaved  a  happier  destiny. 
In  one  of  his  manuscripts,  written  long  after  his  marriage, 
having  accidentally  mentioned  MJ  my  M.  A. 

C."  "Alas!"  exclaims  he.  with  a  sudden  burst  of  feeling, 
"why  do  I  say  my?  Our  union  would  have  healed  feud-  in 
which  blood  had  been  shed  by  our  fathers;  it  would  have  joined 
lands  broad  and  rich ;  it  would  have  joined  at  least  one  heart, 


98 


NEWSTEAD  ABBEY. 


and  two  persons  not  ill-matched  in  years — and— and— and— 
what  has  been  the  result  ?" 

But  enough  of  Annesley  Hall  and  the  poetical  themes  con- 
nected with  it.  I  felt  as  if  I  could  linger  for  hours  about  its 
ruined  oratory,  and  silent  hall,  and  neglected  garden,  and  spin 
reveries  and  dream  dreams,  until  all  became  an  ideal  world 
around  me.  The  day,  however,  was  fast  declining,  and  the 
shadows  of  evening  throwing  deeper  shades  of  melancholy 
about  the  place.  Taking  our  leave  of  the  worthy  old  house* 
keei  or,  therefore,  with  a  small  compensation  and  many  thanks 
for  her  civilities,  we  mounted  our  horses  and  pursued  our  way 
back  to  Newstead  Abbey. 


THE    LAKE. 


"  Before  the  mansion  lay  a  lucid  lake, 

Broad  as  transparent,  deep,  and  freshly  fed 

By  a  river,  which  its  softened  way  did  take 
In  currents  through  the  calmer  water  spread 

Around:  the  wild  fowl  nestled  in  the  brake 
And  sedges,  brooding  in  their  liquid  bed: 

The  woods  sloped  downward  to  its  brink,  and  stood 

With  their  green  faces  fixed  upon  the  flood." 


Such  is  Lord  Byron's  description  of  one  of  a  series  of  beauts 
ful  sheets  of  water,  formed  an  old  times  by  the  monks  by  dam- 
ming up  the  course  of  a  small  river.  Here  he  used  daily  to 
enjoy  his  favorite  recreations  in  swimming  and  sailing.  The 
"wicked  old  Lord,"  in  his  scheme  of  rural  devastation,  had 
cut  down  all  the  woods  that  once  fringed  the  lake ;  Lord  Byron, 
on  coming  of  age,  endeavored  to  restore  them,  and  a  beautiful 
young  wood,  planted  by  him,  now  sweeps  up  from  the  water's 
edge,  and  clothes  the  hillside  opposite  to  the  Abbey.  To  this 
woody  nook  Colonel  Wildman  has  given  the  appropriate  title 
of  "the  Poet's  Corner." 

The  lake  has  inherited  its  share  of  the  traditions  and  fables 
connected  with  everything  in  and  about  the  Abbey.  It  was  a 
petty  Mediterranean  sea  on  which  the  ' '  wicked  old  Lord  "  used 
to  gratify  his  nautical  tastes  and  humors.  He  had  his  mimic 
castles  and  fortresses  along  its  shores,  and  his  mimic  fleets 
upon  its  waters,  and  used  to  get  up  mimic  sea-fights.     The 


Tin-:  la  hi:.  99 

remains  of  his  petty  fortifications  still  awaken  the  curious 
inquiries  of  visitors.  In  one  of  his  vagaries,  he  caused  a  large 
vessel  to  be  brought  on  wheels  from  the  sea-coast  and  launched 
in  the  lake.  The  country  people  were  surprised  to  see  a  ship 
thus  sailing  over  dry  land.  They  called  to  mind  a  saying  of 
Mother  Shipton,  the  famous  prophet  of  the  vulgar,  that  when- 
ever a  ship  freighted  with  ling  should  cross  Sherwood  Forest, 
Newstead  would  pass  out  of  the  Byron  family.  The  country 
people,  who  detested  the  old  Lord,  were  anxious  to  verify  the 
prophecy.  Ling,  in  the  dialect  of  Nottingham,  is  the  name  for 
heather;  with  this  plant  they  heaped  the  fated  bark  as  it 
passed,  so  that  it  arrived  full  freighted  at  Newstead. 

The  most  important  stories  about  the  lake,  however,  relate  to 
the  treasures  that  are  supposed  to  lie  buried  in  its  bosom.  These 
may  have  taken  their  origin  in  a  fact  which  actually  occurred. 
There  was  one  time  fished  up  from  the  deep  part  of  the  lake  a 
great  eagle  of  molten  brass,  with  expanded  wings,  standing  on 
a  pedestal  or  perch  of  the  same  metal.  It  had  doubtless  served 
as  a  stand  or  reading-desk,  in  the  Abbey  chapel,  to  hold  a  folio 
Bible  or  missal. 

The  sacred  relic  was  sent  to  a  brazier  to  be  cleaned.  As  he 
was  at  work  upon  it,  he  discovered  that  the  pedestal  was  hollow 
and  composed  of  several  pieces.  Unscrewing  these,  he  drew 
forth  a  number  of  parchment  deeds  and  grants  appertaining  to 
the  Abbey,  and  bearing  the  seals  of  Edward  III.  and  Henry 
VIII. ,  which  had  thus  been  concealed,  and  ultimately  sunk  in 
the  lake  by  the  friars,  to  substantiate  their  right  and  title  to 
these  domains  at  some  future  day. 

One  of  the  parchment  scrolls  thus  discovered,  throws  rather 
an  awkward  light  upon  the  kind  of  life  led  by  the  friars  of 
Newstead.  It  is  an  indulgence  granted  to  them  for  a  certain 
number  of  months,  in  which  plenary  pardon  is  assured  in 
advance  for  all  kinds  of  crimes,  among  which,  several  of  the 
most  gross  and  sensual  are  specifically  mentioned,  and  the 
weakness  of  the  flesh  to  which  they  are  prone. 

After  inspecting  these  testimonials  of  monkish  life,  in  the 
r.  gions  of  Sherwood  Forest,  we  cease  to  wonder  at  the  virtuous 
indignation  of  Robin  Hood  and  his  outlaw  crew,  at  the  sleek 
sensualists  of  the  cloister : 

"  I  never  hurt  the  husbandman, 
That  use  to  till  the  ground, 
Nor  spill  their  blood  thai  range  the  wood 
To  follow  hawk  and  hound. 


100 


NEWSTEAD  A1WEY. 


"  My  chiefeat  spite  to  clergy  is. 
Who  in  these  days  bear  sway; 
"With  friars  and  monks  with  their  fine  spunks, 
I  make  my  chiefeat  prey."— Old  Ballad  of  Robin  Hood. 

The  brazen  eagle  has  been  transferred  to  the  parochial  and 
collegiate  church  of  Southall,  about  twenty  miles  from  New- 
where  it  may  still  be  seen  in  the  centre  of  the  chancel, 
supporting,  as  of  yore,  a  ponderous  Eible.  As  to  the  docu- 
ment <ined,  they  are  carefully  treasured  up  by  Colonel 
Wihlman  among  his  other  deeds  and  papers,  in  an  iron  chest 
secured  by  a  patent  lock  of  nine  bolts,  almost  equal  to  a  magic 
spell. 

The  fishing  up  of  this  brazen  relic,  as  I  have  already  hinted, 
has  given  rise  to  thi  if  treasure  lying  at  the  bottom  of  the 

lake,  thrown  in  there  by  the  monks  when  tin  y  abandoned  the 
Abbey.  The  favorite  story  is,  that  there  is  a  great  iron  chest 
there  filled  with  gold  and  jewels,  and  chalices  and  crucifixes. 
Nay.  that  it  has  been  seen,  when  the  water  of  the  lake  was 
unusually  low.  There  were  large  iron  rings  at  each  end,  but 
all  attempts  to  move  it  were  ineffectual;  either  the  gold  it  con- 
tained was  too  ponderous,  or  what  is  more  probable,  it  was 
secured  by  one  of  those  magic  spells  usually  laid  upon  hidden 
are.  It  remains,  there! ore.  at  the  bottom  of  the  lake  to 
this  day ;  and  it  is  to  be  hoped,  may  one  day  or  other  be  dis- 
covered by  the  present  worthy  proprietor. 


ROBIN  HOOD  AND  SHERWOOD  FOREST. 


While  at  Newstead  Abbey  I  took  great  delight  in  riding  and 
rambling  about  the  neighborhood,  studying  out  the  traces  of 
merry  Sherwood  Forest,  and  visiting  the  haunts  of  Robin 
Hood.  The  relics  of  the  old  forest  are  few  and  scattered,  but 
as  to  the  bold  outlaw  who  once  held  a  kind  of  f  reebooting  sway 
over  it,  there  is  scarce  a  hill  or  dale,  a  cliff  or  cavern,  a  well  or 
fountain,  in  this  part  of  the  country,  that  is  not  connected  with 
his  memory.  The  very  names  of  some  of  the  tenants  on  the 
Newstead  estate,  such  as  Beardall  and  Hardstaff ,  sound  as  if 
they  may  have  been  borne  in  old  times  by  some  of  the  stalwart 
fellows  of  the  outlaw  gang. 


ROBIN  ROOD  AND  8H  ■■    FOREST.  101 

One  of  the  earliest  books  that  captivated  my  fancy  when  a 
child,  was  a  collection  of  Robin  Hood  ballads,  "adorned  with 
cuts,"  which  I  bought  of  an  old  Scotch  pedler,  at  the  cost  of  all 
my  holiday  money.  How  I  devoured  its  pages,  and  gazed 
upon  its  uncouth  woodcuts !  For  a  time  my  mind  was  filled 
with  picturings  of  "  merry  Sherwood, "  and  the  exploits  and 
revelling  of  the  bold  foresters ;  and  Robin  Hood,  Little  John, 
Friar  Tuck,  and  their  doughty  compeers,  were  my  heroes  of 
romance. 

These  early  feelings  were  in  some  degree  revived  when  I 
found  myself  in  the  very  heart  of  the  far-famed  forest,  and,  as 
I  said  before,  I  took  a  kind  of  schoolboy  delight  in  hunting  up 
all  traces  of  old  Sherwood  and  its  sylvan  chivalry.  One  of  the 
first  of  my  antiquarian  rambles  was  on  horseback,  in  company 
with  Colonel  Wildman  and  his  lady,  who  undertook  to  guide 
me  to  some  of  the  moldering  monuments  of  the  forest.  One  of 
these  stands  in  front  of  the  very  gate  of  Newrstead  Park,  and  is 
known  throughout  the  country  by  the  name  of  "  The  Pilgrim 
Oak."  It  is  a  venerable  tree,  of  great  size,  overshadowing  a 
wide  arena  of  the  road.  Under  its  shade  the  rustics  of  the 
neighborhood  have  been  accustomed  to  assemble  on  certain 
holidays,  and  celebrate  their  rural  festivals.  This  custom  had 
been  handed  down  from  father  to  son  for  several  generations, 
until  the  oak  had  acquired  a  kind  of  sacred  character. 

The  "  old  Lord  Byron,"  however,  in  whose  eyes  nothing  was 
sacred,  when  he  laid  his  desolating  hand  on  the  groves  and 
forests  of  Newstead,  doomed  likewise  this  traditional  tree  to 
the  axe.  Fortunately  the  good  people  of  Nottingham  heard 
of  the  danger  of  their  favorite  oak,  and  hastened  to  ransom 
it  from  destruction.  They  afterward  made  a  present  of  it 
to  the  poet,  when  he  came  to  the  estate,  and  the  Pilgrim  Oak 
is  likely  to  continue  a  rural  gathering  place  for  many  coming 
generations. 

From  this  magnificent  and  time-honored  tree  we  continued 
on  our  sylvan  research,  in  quest  of  another  oak,  of  more  an- 
cient date  and  less  flourishing  condition.  A  ride  of  two  or  three 
miles,  the  latter  part  across  open  wastes,  once  clothed  with 
forest,  now  bare  and  cheerless,  brought  us  to  the  tree  in  ques- 
tion. It  was  the  Oak  of  Ravenshead,  one  of  the  last  survivors 
of  old  Sherwood,  and  which  had  evidently  once  held  a  high 
head  in  the  forest ;  it  was  now  a  mere  wreck,  crazed  by  time, 
and  blasted  by  lightning,  and  standing  alone  on  a  naked  waste, 
like  a  ruined  column  in  a  deserj3.,_ 


102  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY. 

"  The  scenes  are  desert  now,  and  bare, 
Where  flourished  once  a  forest  fair, 
When  these  waste  glens  with  copse  were  lined, 
And  peopled  with  the  hart  and  hind. 
Yon  lonely  oak,  would  he  could  tell 
The  changes  of  his  parent  dell, 
Since  he,  so  gray  and  stubborn  now. 
Waved  in  each  breeze  a  sapling  bough. 
Would  he  could  tell  how  deep  the  shade 
A  thousand  mingled  branches  made. 
Here  in  my  shade,  methinks  he'd  say, 
The  mighty  stag  at  noontide  lay, 
While  doe,  and  roe.  and  red-deer  good, 
Have  bounded  by  through  gay  green-wood." 

At  no  great  distance  from  Ravenshead  Oak  is  a  small  cave 
which  goes  by  the  name  of  Robin  Hood's  stable.  It  is  in  the 
breast  of  a  hill,  scooped  out  of  brown  freestone,  with  rude  at- 
tempt at  columns  and  arches.  Within  are  two  niches,  which 
served,  it  is  said,  as  stalls  for  the  bold  outlaw's  horses.  To  this 
retreat  he  retired  when  hotly  pursued  by  the  law,  for  the  place 
was  a  secret  even  from  his  band.  The  cave  is  overshadowed 
by  an  oak  and  alder,  and  is  hardly  discoverable  even  at  the 
present  day ;  but  when  Jhe  country  was  overrun  with  forest  it 
must  have  been  completely  concealed. 

There  was  an  agreeable  wildness  and  loneliness  in  a  great 
part  of  our  ride.  Our  devious  road  wound  down,  at  one  time 
among  rocky  dells,  by  wandering  streams,  and  lonely  pools, 
haunted  by  shy  water-fowl.  We  passed  through  a  skirt  of 
woodland,  of  more  modern  planting,  but  considered  a  legiti- 
mate offspring  of  the  ancient  forest,  and  commonly  called  Jock 
of  Sherwood.  In  riding  through  these  quiet,  solitary  scenes, 
the  partridge  and  pheasant  would  now  and  then  burst  upon  the 
wing,  and  the  hare  scud  aw^ay  before  us. 

Another  of  these  rambling  rides  in  quest  of  popular  antiqui- 
ties, was  to  a  chain  of  rocky  cliffs,  called  the  Kirkby  Crags, 
which  skirt  the  Robin  Hood  hills.  Here,  leaving  my  horse  at 
the  foot  of  the  crags,  I  scaled  their  rugged  sides,  and  seated 
myself  in  a  niche  of  the  rocks,  called  Robin  Hood's  chair.  It 
commands  a  wide  prospect  over  the  valley  of  Newstead,  and 
here  the  bold  outlaw  is  said  to  have  taken  his  seat,  and  kept  a 
look-out  upon  the  roads  below,  watching  for  merchants,  and 
bishops,  and  other  wealthy  travellers,  upon  whom  to  pounce 
down,  like  an  eagle  from  his  eyrie. 

Descending  from  the  cliffs  and  remounting  my  horse,  a  ride 
of  a  mile  or  two  further  along  a  narrow  "robber  path,"  as  it 
was  called,  which  wound  up  into  the  hills  between  perpendicu- 


no  nix  noon  and  sherwood  forest.        103 

lar  rocks,  led  to  an  artificial  cavern  cut  in  the  face  of  a  cliff, 
with  a  door  and  window  wrought  through  the  living  stone. 
This  bears  the  name  of  Friar  Tuck's  ceil,  or  hermitage,  where, 
according  to  tradition,  that  jovial  anchorite  used  to  make  good 
cheer  and  boisterous  revel  with  his  freebooting  comrades. 

Such  were  some  of  the  vestiges  of  old  Sherwood  and  its  re- 
nowned "yeomandrie,"  which  I  visited  in  the  neighborhood  of 
Newstead.  The  worthy  clergyman  who  officiated  as  chaplain 
at  the  Abbey,  seeing  my  zeal  in  the  cause,  informed  me  of  a 
considerable  tract  of  the  ancient  forest,  still  in  existence  about 
ten  miles  distant.  There  were  many  fine  old  oaks  in  it,  he  said, 
that  had  stood  for  centuries,  but  were  now  shattered  and 
"stag-headed,"  that  is  to  say,  their  upper  branches  were  bare, 
and  blasted,  and  straggling  out  like  the  antlers  of  a  deer. 
Their  trunks,  too,  were  hollow,  and  full  of  crows  and  jackdaws, 
who  made  them  their  nestling  places.  He  occasionally  rode 
over  to  the  forest  in  the  long  summer  evenings,  and  pleased 
himself  with  loitering  in  the  twilight  about  the  green  alleys  and 
under  the  venerable  trees. 

The  description  given  by  the  chaplain  made  me  anxious  to 
visit  this  remnant  of  old  Sherwood,  and  he  kindly  offered  to  be 
my  guide  and  companion.  We  accordingly  sallied  forth  one 
morning  on  horseback  on  this  sylvan  expedition.  Our  ride 
took  us  through  a  part  of  the  country  where  King  John  had 
once  held  a  hunting  seat ;  the  ruins  of  which  are  still  to  be  seen. 
At  that  time  the  whole  neighborhood  was  an  open  royal  forest, 
or  Frank  chase,  as  it  was  termed ;  for  King  John  was  an  enemy 
to  parks  and  warrens,  and  other  inclosures,  by  which  game 
was  fenced  in  for  the  private  benefit  and  recreation  of  the 
nobles  and  the  clergy. 

Here,  on  the  brow  of  a  gentle  hill,  commanding  an  extensive 
prospect  of  what  had  once  been  forest,  stood  another  of  those 
monumental  trees,  which,  to  my  mind,  gave  a  peculiar  interest 
to  this  neighborhood.  It  was  the  Parliament  Oak,  so  called  in 
memory  of  an  assemblage  of  the  kind  held  by  King  John  be- 
neath its  shade.  The  lapse  of  upward  of  six  centuries  had 
reduced  this  once  mighty  tree  to  a  mere  crumbling  fragment, 
yet,  like  a  gigantic  torso  in  ancient  statuary,  the  grandeur  of 
the  mutilated  trunk  gave  evidence  of  what  it  had  been  in  the 
days  of  its  glory.  In  contemplating  its  mouldering  remains, 
the  fancy  busied  itself  in  calling  up  the  scene  that  must  have 
been  presented  beneath  its  shade,  when  this  sunny  hill  swarmed 
with  the  pageantry  of  a  warlike  and  hunting  court.     When 


104  X&W8TEAD  ABBEY. 

silken  pavilion*  and  warrior-tents  decked  its  crest,  and  royal 
standards,  and  baronial  banners,  and  knightly  pennons  rolled 
out  to  the  breeze.  When  prelates  and  courtiers,  and  steel-clad 
chivalry  thronged  round  the  person  of  the  monarch,  while  at  a 
distance  loitered  the  foresters  in  green,  and  all  the  rural  and 
hunting  train  that  waited  upon  his  sylvan  sports. 

•  A  thousand  vassals  mustered  round 
Witli  horse,  and  hawk,  and  horn,  and  hound; 
And  through  the  brake  t)i<  .die, 

And  falc'neri  hold  the  ready  hawk; 
And  foresters  i:i  green-wood  trim 
Lead  in  the  leash  the  greyhound  grim." 

Such  was  the  phantasmagoria  that  presented  itself  for  a 
moment  I  igination,  peopling  the  silent  place  before  me 

witli  empty  shadows  of  the  past.  The  reverie  however  was 
transient;  kin-,  courtier,  and  steel-clad  warrior,  and  forester 
in  green,  with  horn,  and  hawk,  and  hound,  all  faded  again 
into  oblivion,  and  I  awoke  to  all  that  remained  of  this  once 
stirring  scene  of  human  pomp  and  power— a  mouldering  oak 
and  a  tradition. 

'•  We  are  such  stufT  as  dreams  are  made  of!'' 

A  ride  of  a  few  miles  farther  brought  us  at  length  among  the 
venerable  and  classic  shades  of  Sherwood.  Here  I  was  de- 
lighted to  find  myself  in  a  genuine  wild  wood,  of  primitive 
and  natural  growth,  so  rarely  to  be  met  with  in  this  thickly 
peopled  and  highly  cultivated  country.  It  reminded  me  of  the 
aboriginal  forests  of  my  native  land.  I  rode  through  natural 
alleys  and  green-wood  groves,  carpeted  with  grass  and  shaded 
by  lofty  and  beautiful  birches.  What  most  interested  me, 
however,  was  to  behold  around  me  the  mighty  trunks  of  vet- 
eran oaks,  old  monumental  trees,  the  patriarchs  of  Sherwood 
Forest.  They  were  shattered,  hollow,  and  moss-grown,  it  is 
true,  and  their  "leafy  honors"  were  nearly  departed;  but  like 
mouldering  towers  they  were  noble  and  picturesque  in  their 
decay,  and  gave  evidence,  even  in  their  ruins,  of  their  ancient 
grandeur. 

As  I  gazed  about  me  upon  these  vestiges  of  once  "Merrie 
Sherwood,"  the  picturings  of  my  boyish  fancy  began  to  rise  in 
my  mind,  and  Robin  Hood  and  his  men  to  stand  before  me. 

"  He  clothed  himself  in  scarlet  then, 
His  men  were  all  in  green ; 
A  finer  show  throughout  the  world 
In  no  place  could  be  seen. 


R(Jr>l\  AND  8MEHW002  FOREST.  105 

"  Good  lonl!  it  was  a  gallant  sight 
To  set'  them  all  in  a  row; 
With  every  man  a  good  broad-sword 
And  eke  a  good  jew  bow." 

The  horn  of  Robin  Hood  again  seemed  to  resound  through 
the  forest.  I  saw  this  sylvan  chivalry,  half  huntsmen,  half 
freebooters,  trooping  across  the  distant  glades,  or  feasting  and 
revelling  beneath  the  trees;  I  was. going  on  to  embody  in  this 

.  all  the  ballad  scenes  that  had  delighted  me  when  a  boy, 
when  the  distant  sound  of  a  woodcutter's  axe  roused  me  from 
my  dav-dream. 

The  boding  apprehensions  which  it  awakened  were  too  soon 
verified.  I  had  not  ridden  much  farther,  when  I  came  to 
an  open  space  where  the  work  of  destruction  was  going  on. 
Around  me  lay  the  prostrate  trunks  of  venerable  oaks,  once 
the  towering  and  magnificent  lords  of  the  forest,  and  a  number 
of  wood-cutters  were  hacking  and  hewing  at  another  gigantic 
tree,  just  tottering  to  its  fall. 

Alas!  for  old  Sherwood  Forest:  it  had  fallen  into  the  posses- 
sion of  a  noble  agriculturist ;  a  modern  utilitarian,  who  had  no 
feeling  for  poetry  or  forest  scenery.  In  a  little  while  and  this 
glorious  woodland  will  be  laid  low ;  its  green  glades  oe  turned 
into  sheep-walks;  its  legendary  bowers  supplanted  by  turnip- 
fields;  and  "Merrie  Sherwood"  will  exist  but  in  ballad  and 
tradition. 

"O  for  the  poetical  superstitions,"  thought  I,  "of  the  olden 
time!  that  shed  a  sanctity  over  every  grove;  that  gave  to  each 
tree  its  tutelar  genius  or  nymph,  and  threatened  disaster  to  all 
who  should  molest  the  hamadryads  in  their  leafy  abodes. 
Alas!  for  the  sordid  propensities  of  modern  days,  when  every- 
thing is  coined  into  gold,  and  this  once  holiday  planet  of  ours 
is  turned  into  a  mere  'working-day  world."' 

My  cobweb  fancies  put  to  flight,  and  my  feelings  out  of  tune, 
I  left  the  forest  in  a  far  different  mood  from  that  in  which  I 
had  entered  it,  and  rode  silently  along  until,  on  reaching  the 
summit  of  a  gentle  eminence,  the  chime  of  evening  bells  came 
on  the  breeze  across  the  heath  from  a  distant  village. 

I  paused  to  listen. 

"They  are  merely  the  evening  bells  of  Mansfield,"  said  my 
companion. 

"Of  Mansfield!"  Here  was  another  of  the  legendary  names 
of  this  storied  neighborhood,  that  called  up  early  and  pleasant 
associations.     The  famous  old  ballad  of  the  King  and  the 


106  NBW8TEAD  ABBEY. 

Miller  of  Mansfield  came  at  once  to  mind,  and  the  chime  of 
the  bells  put  me  again  in  good  humor. 

A  little  farther  on,  and  we  were  again  on  the  traces  of  Robin 
Hood.  Here  was  Fountain  Dale,  where  he  had  his  encounter 
with  that  stalwart  shaveling  Friar  Tuck,  who  was  a  kind  of 
saint  militant,  alternately  wearing  the  casque  and  the  cowl: 

"The  carta]  fryar  kept  Fountain  dale 
Seven  long  years  and  more, 
There  was  neither  lord,  knight  or  earl 
Could  make  him  yield  before." 

The  moat  is  still  shown  which  is  said  to  have  surrounded  the 
stronghold  of  this  jovial  and  fighting  friar;  and  the  place 
where  he  and  Robin  Hood  had  their  sturdy  trial  of  strength 
and  prowess,  in  the  memorable  conflict  which  lasted 

"  From  ten  o'clock  that  very  day 
Until  four  in  the  afternoon," 

and  ended  in  the  treaty  of  fellowship.  As  to  the  hardy  feats, 
both  of  sword  and  trencher,  performed  by  this  "curtal  fryar," 
behold  are  they  not  recorded  a-t  length  in  the  ancient  ballads, 
and  in  the  magic  pages  of  Ivanhoe? 

The  evening  was  fast  coming  on,  and  the  twilight  thickening, 
as  we  rode  through  these  haunts  famous  in  outlaw  story.  A 
melancholy  seemed  to  gather  over  the  landscape  as  we  pro- 
ceeded, for  cur  course  lay  by  shadowy  woods,  and  across 
naked  heaths,  and  along  lonely  roads,  marked  by  some  of 
those  sinister  names  by  which  the  country  people  in  England 
are  apt  to  make  dreary  places  still  more  dreary.  The  horrors 
of  "Thieves' Wood,"  and  the  "Murderers'  Stone,"  and  "the 
Hag  Nook,"  had  all  to  be  encountered  in  the  gathering  gloom 
of  evening,  and  threatened  to  beset  our  path  with  more  than 
mortal  peril.  Happily,  however,  we  passed  these  ominous 
places  unharmed,  and  arrived  in  safety  at  the  portal  of  New- 
stead  Abbey,  highly  satisfied  with  our  green- wood  foray. 


THE  BOOK  CELL. 

In  the  course  of  my  sojourn  at  the  Abbey,  I  changed  my 
quarters  from  the  magnificent  old  state  apartment  haunted  by 
Sir  John  Byron  the  Little,  to  another  in  a  remote  corner  of  the 
ancient  edifice,  immediately  adjoining  the  ruined  chapel.    It 


THE  ROOK  CELL.  107 

possessed  still  more  interest  in  my  eyes,  from  having  been  the 
sleeping  apartment  of  Lord  Byron  during  Ins  residence  at  the 
Abbey.  The  furniture  remained  the  same.  Here  was  the  bed 
in  which  he  slept,  and  which  he  had  brought  with  him  from 
college;  its  gilded  posts  surmounted  by  coronets,  giving  evi- 
dence of  his  aristocratical  feelings.  Here  was  likewise  his 
college  sofa;  and  about  the  walls  were  the  portraits  of  his 
favorite  butler,  old  Joe  Murray,  of  his  fancy  acquaintance, 
Jackson  the  pugilist,  together  with  pictures  of  Harrow  School 
and  the  College  at  Cambridge,  at  which  he  was  educated. 

The  bedchamber  goes  by  the  name  of  the  Eook  Cell,  from  its 
vicinity  to  the  Rookery  which,  since  time  immemorial,  has 
maintained  possession  of  a  solemn  grove  adjacent  to  the  cha- 
pel. This  venerable  community  afforded  me  much  food  for 
speculation  during  my  residence  in  this  apartment.  In  the 
morning  I  used  to  hear  them  gradually  waking  and  seeming  to 
call  each  other  up.  After  a  time,  the  whole  fraternity  would 
be  in  a  flutter-;  some  balancing  and  swinging  on  the  tree  tops, 
others  perched  on  the  pinnacle  of  the  Abbey  church,  or  wheel- 
ing and  hovering  about  in  the  air,  and  the  ruined  walls  would 
reverberate  with  their  incessant  cawings.  In  this  way  they 
would  linger  about  the  rookery  and  its  vicinity  for  the  early 
part  of  the  morning,  when,  having  apparently  mustered  all 
their  forces,  called  over  the  roll,  and  determined  upon  their 
line  of  march,  they  oae  and  all  would  sail  off  in  a  long  strag- 
gling flight  to  maraud  the  distant  fields.  They  would  forage 
the  country  for  miles,  and  remain  absent  all  day,  excepting 
now  and  then  a  scout  would  come  home,  as  if  to  see  that  all 
was  well.  Toward  night  the  whole  host  might  be  seen,  like  a 
dark  cloud  in  the  distance,  winging  their  way  homeward. 
They  came,  as  it  were,  with  whoop  and  halloo,  wheeling  high 
in  the  air  above  the  Abbey,  making  various  evolutions  before 
they  alighted,  and  then  keeping  up  an  incessant  cawing  in  the 
tree  tops,  until  they  gradually  fell  asleep. 

It  is  remarked  at  the  Abbey,  that  the  rooks,  though  they 
sally  forth  on  forays  throughout  the  week,  yet  keep  about  the 
venerable  edifice  on  Sundays,  as  if  they  had  inherited  a  rev- 
erence for  the  day,  from  their  ancient  confreres,  the  monks. 
Indeed,  a  believer  in  the  metempsychosis  might  easily  imagine 
these  Gothic-looking  birds  to  be  the  embodied  souls  of  the 
ancient  friars  still  hovering  about  their  sanctified  abode. 

I  dislike  to  disturb  any  point  of  popular  and  poetic  faith,  and 
was  loath,  therefore,  to  question  the  authenticity  of  this  mys- 


108  NBW8TBAD   ABBEY. 

terious  reverence  for  the  Sabbath  on  the  part  of  the  Newstead 
rooks;  but  certainly  in  the  course  of  my  sojourn  in  the  Rook 
Cell,  I  detected  them  in  a  flagrant  outbreak  and  foray  on  a 
bright  Sunday  morning. 

Beside  the  occasional  clamor  of  the  rookery,  this  remote 
apartment  was  often  greeted  with  sounds  of  a  different  kind, 
from  the  neighboring  ruins.  The  great  lancet  window  in  front 
of  the  chapel,  adjoins  the  very  wall  of  the  chamber;  and  the 
unds  from  it  at  night  have  been  well  described 
by  Lord  Byron : 

"  Now  loud,  now  frantic, 

The  ga  1  hrough  its  fretwork,  and  oft  sings 

The  owl  his  anthem,  when  the  silent  quire 
Lie  with  their  hallelujahs  quenched  like  fire. 

But  on  the  noontide  of  the  moon,  and  Whefl 

The  wind  is  Wlngi 
There  moa  unearthly  sound,  .vhich  then 

Is  musical— a  dyn  driven 

Through  the  huge  arch,  which  soars  and  sinks  again. 

Some  deem  it  but  the  distant  echo  given 
wind  by  the  waterfall, 
And  harmonized  by  the  old  choral  wall. 

"  Others,  that  some  original  shape  or  form, 

Shaped  by  decay  perchance,  hath  given  the  power 
To  this  gray  ruin,  with  a  voice  to  charm. 

Sad,  but  serene,  it  sweeps  o'er  tree  or  tower; 
The  cause  I  know  not,  nor  can  solve;  but  such 
The  fact:— I've  heard  it, —once  perhaps  too  much." 

Never  was  a  traveller  in  <quest  of  the  romantic  in  greater 
luck.  I  had  in  sooth,  got  lodged  in  another  haunted  apart- 
ment of  the  Abbe}' ;  for  iu  this  chamber  Lord  3yron  declared 
lie  had  more  than  once  been  harassed  at  midnight  by  a  mys- 
terious visitor.  A  black  shapeless  form  would  sit  cowering 
upon  his  bed,  and  after  gazing  at  him  for  a  time  with  glaring 
eyes,  would  roll  off  and  disappear.  The  same  uncouth  appari- 
tion is  said  to  have  disturbed  the  slumbers  of  a  newly  married 
couple  that  once  passed  their  honeymoon  in  this  apartment. 

I  would  observe,  that  the  access  to  the  Rook  Cell  is  by  a 
spiral  stone  staircase  leading  up  into  it,  as  into  a  turret,  from 
the  long  shadowy  corridor  over  the  cloisters,  one  of  the  mid- 
night walks  of  the  Goblin  Friar.  Indeed,  to  the  fancies  en- 
gendered in  his  brain  in  this  remote  and  lonely  apartment,  in- 
corporated with  the  floating  superstitions  of  the  Abbey,  we  are 
no  doubt  indebted  for  the  spectral  scene  in     Don  Juan." 


Til E  ROOK   CELL.  109 

-  Then  as  the  night  was  clear,  though  cold,  he  threw 

His  chamber  door  wide  open    and  went  forth 
Into  a  gallery,  of  sombre  hue, 

Long  furuish'd  \\  ith  old  pictures  of  great  worth, 
Of  knights  and  dames,  heroic  and  chaste  boo, 

As  doubtlessshould  1  >f  high  birth. 

*  No  sound  except  the  echo  of  his  sigh 

p  ran  sadly  through  that  antique  house, 
When  suddenly  he  heard,  or  thought  so,  nigh, 

A  supernatural  agent— or  a  mouse. 
Whose  little  nibbling  rustle  will  embarrass 
Most  people,  as  it  plays  along  the  arras. 

44  Jt  was  no  mouse,  but  lo:  a  monk,  arrayed 

In  cowl,  and  beads,  and  dusky  garb,  appeared, 
Now  in  the  moonlight,  and  now  lapsed  in  shade; 

With  steps  that  trod  as  heavy,  yet  unto 
His  garments  only  a  slight  murmur  made: 

He  moved  as  shadowy  as  the  <isters  weird, 
But  slowly ;  and  as  he  passed  Juan  by 
Glared,  without  pausing,  on  him  a  bright  eye. 

i4  Juan  was  petrified:  he  had  heard  a  hint 

Of  such  a  spirit  in  these  halls  of  old. 
But  thought,  like  most  men.  there  was  nothing  tot 

Beyond  the  rumor  which  such  spots  unfold. 
Coin'd  from  surviving  superstition's  mint, 

Which  p;;  3  in  currency  like  gold. 

But  rarely  seen,  like  gold  compared  with  paper. 
And  did  he  see  this?  or  was  it  a  vapory 

;i  Once,  twice,  thrice  pass'd,  repass'd— the  thing  of  air, 
Or  earth  beneath,  or  heaven,  or  fother  place; 
And  Juan  gazed  upon  it  with  a  stare, 
"Yet  could  not  speak  or  move:  but.  on  its  base 

As  stands  a  statue,  stood:  lie  felt  his  hair 

Twine  like  a  knot  of  snakes  around  his  face; 
He  tax'd  his  tongue  for  words,  which  were  not  grantee 
To  ask  the  reverend  person  what  he  wanted. 

■"  The  third  time,  after  a  still  longer  pal 

The  shadow  pass'd  away— btit  where?  tl 
Was  long,  and  thus  far  there  was  no  great  cause 

To  think  its  vanishing  unnatural: 
Doors  there  were  many,  through  which.,  by  the  laws 

Of  physics,  bodies,  whether  short  or  tall. 
Might  come  or  go;  but  .Juan  could  not 
Through  which  the  spectre  seem'd  to  evaporate. 

'■'  He  stood,  how  long  he  knew  not.  but  it  seem'd 

An  age  -  expectant,  powerless,  with  his  • 
Btrain'd  on  the  spot  where  first  the  figure  gleam'd: 

Then  by  1 1 
And  would  have  pass'd  the  whole  off  as  a  dream, 

But  could  not  wake:  he  was.  he  did  surmise. 
Waking  already,  and  return'd  at  length 
Back  to  his  -horn  of  half  his 


110 


NEWSTEAD  ABBEY. 


As  I  have  already  observed,  it  is  difficult  to  determine  whe- 
ther Lord  Byron  was  really  subject  to  the  superstitious  fancies 
which  have  been  imputed  to  him,  or  whether  he  merely  amused 
himself  by  giving  currency  to  them  among  his  domestics  and 
dependents.  He  certainly  never  scrupled  to  express  a  belief  in 
supernatural  visitations,  both  verbally  and  in  his  correspond- 
ence. If  such  were  his  foible,  the  Rook  Cell  was  an  admira- 
ble place  to  engender  these  delusions.  As  I  have  lain  awake  at 
night,  I  have  heard  all  kinds  of  mysterious  and  sighing  sounds 
from  the  neighboring  ruin.  Distant  footsteps,  too,  and  the 
closing  of  doors  in  remote  parts  of  the  Abbey,  would  send  hol- 
low reverberations  and  echoes  along  the  corridor  and  up  the 
Spiral  staircase.  Once,  in  fact,  I  was  roused  by  a  strange 
sound  at  the  very  door  of  my  chamber.  I  threw  it  open,  and  a 
form  "black  and  shapeless  with  glaring  eyes1'  stood  before  me. 
It  proved,  however,  neither  ghost  nor  goblin,  but  my  friend 
Boatswain,  the  great  Newfoundland  dog.  who  had  conceived  a 
companionable  liking  for  me,  and  occasionally  sought  me  in 
my  apartment.  To  the  hauntings  of  even  such  a  visitant  as 
honest  Boatswain  may  we  attribute  some  of  the  marvellous 
stories  about  the  Goblin  Friar. 


THE  LITTLE  WHITE  LADY. 


In  the  course  of  a  morning's  ride  with  Colonel  Wildman, 
about  the  Abbey  lands,  we  found  ourselves  in  one  of  the  pret- 
tiest little  wild  woods  imaginable.  The  road  to  it  had  led  us 
among  rocky  ravines  overhung  with  thickets,  and  now  wound 
through  birchen  dingles  and  among  beautiful  groves  and 
clumps  of  elms  and  beeches.  A  limpid  rill  of  sparkling  water, 
winding  and  doubling  in  perplexed  mazes,  crossed  our  path 
repeatedly,  so  as  to  give  the  wood  the  appearance  of  being 
watered  by  numerous  rivulets.  The  solitary  and  romantic  look 
of  this  piece  of  woodland,  and  the  frequent  recurrence  of  its 
mazy  stream,  put  him  in  mind,  Colonel  Wildman  said,  of  the 
little  German  fairy  tale  of  Undine,  in  which  is  recorded  the 
adventures  of  a  knight  who  had  married  a  water-nymph.  As 
he  rode  with  his  bride  through  her  native  woods,  every  stream 
claimed  her  as  a  relative ;  one  was  a  brother,  another  an  uncle, 
inother  a  cousin. 


THE  LITTLE    WHITE   LADY.  1J1 

We  rode  on  amusing  ourselves  with  applying  this  fanciful 
tale  to  the  charming  scenery  around  us,  until  we  came  to  a 
lowly  gray-stone  farmhouse,  of  ancient  date,  situated  in  a  soli- 
tary glen,  on  the  margin  of  the  brook,  and  overshadowed  by 
venerable  trees.  It  went  by  the  name,  as  I  was  told,  of  the 
Weir  Mill  farmhouse.  With  this  rustic  mansion  was  conn<  ■>  i  <  ■•■  1 
a  little  tale  of  real  life,  some  circumstances  of  which  were 
related  to  me  on  the  spot,  and  others  I  collected  in  the  course 
of  my  sojourn  at  the  Abbey. 

Not  long  after  Colonel  Wildman  had  purchased  the  estate  of 
Newstead,  he  made  it  a  visit  for  the  purpose  of  planning  repairs 
and  alterations.  As  he  was  rambling  one  evening,  about  dusk, 
in  company  with  his  architect,  •  through  this  little  piece  of 
woodland,  he  was  struck  with  its  peculiar  characteristics,  and 
then,  for  the  first  time,  compared  it  to  the  haunted  wood  of 
Undine.  While  he  was  making  the  remark,  a  small  female 
figure  in  white,  flitted  by  without  speaking  a  Avord,  or  indeed 
appearing  to  notice  them.  Her  step  was  scarcely  heard  as  she 
passed,  and  her  form  was  indistinct  in  the  twilight. 

"What  a  figure  for  a  fairy  or  sprite:"  exclaimed  Colonel 
Wildman.  "How  much  a  poet  or  a  romance  writer  would 
make  of  such  an  apparition,  at  such  a  time  and  in  such  a 
place!" 

He  began  to  congratulate  himself  upon  having  some  elfin 
inhabitant  for  his  haunted  wood,  when,  on  proceeding  a  few 
s,  he  found  a  white  frill  lying  in  the  path,  which  had  evi- 
dently fallen  from  the  figure  that  had  just  passed. 

•  Well."  said  her  "after  all.  this  is  neither  sprite  nor  fairy, 
but  a  being  of  flesh,  and  blood,  and  muslin." 

Continuing  on,  he  came  to  where  the  road  passed  by  an  old 
mill  in  front  of  the  Abbey.  The  people  of  the  null  were  at  the 
door.  He  paused  and  inquired  whether  any  visitor  had  been 
it  the  Abbey,  but  was  answered  in  the  negative. 

"  Has  nobody  passed  by  hero.'" 

"No  one,  sir." 

"That's  strange!  Surely  I  met  a  female  in  white,  who  must 
have  passed  along  this  path." 

"Oh,  sir,  you  mean  the  Little  White  Lady — oh,  yes.  she 
passed  by  here  not  long  sin 

"The  Little  White  Lady  I  And  ]  >ray  who  is  the  Little  White 
Lady?" 

"Why,  sir,  that  nobody  knows;  she  lives  in  the  Weir  Mill 
farmhouse,  down  in  the  skirts  of  the  wood.     She  conies  to  the 


112 


STEAD  ABBEY 


Abbey  every  morning,  keeps  about  it  all  day,  and  goes  away 
at  night.  She  speaks  to  nobody,  and  we  are  rather  shy  of  her, 
for  we  don't  know  what  to  make  of  her." 

Colonel  Wildman  now  concluded  that  it  was  some  artist  or 
amateur  employed  in  making  sketches  of  the  Abbey,  and 
thought  no  more  about  the  matter.  Be  went  to  London,  and 
was  absent  for  some  time.  In  the  interim,  his  sister,  who  was 
newly  married,  came  with  her  husband  to  pass  the  honeymoon 
at  the  Abbey.  The  Little  White  Lady  still  resided  in  the  Weir 
Mill  farmhouse,  on  the  border  of  the  haunted  wood,  and  con- 
tinued her  visits  daily  to  the  Abbey.  Her  dress  was  always 
the  same,  a  white  gown  with  a  little  black  spencer  or  bodice, 
and  a  white  hat  with  a  short  veil  that  screened  the  upper  part 
of  her  countenance.  Her  habits  were  shy,  lonely,  and  silent; 
she  spoke  to  no  one,  ;md  sought  no  companionship,  excepting 
with  the  Newfoundland  dog  that  had  belonged  to  Lord  Byron. 
His  friendship  she  secured  by  caressing  him  and  occasionally 
bringing  him  food,  and  he  became  the  companion  of  her  soli- 
She  avoided  all  strangers,  and  wandered  about 
the  retired  parts  of  the  garden ;  sometimes  sitting  for  hours  by 
the  tree  on  which  Lord  Byron  had  carved  his  name,  or  at  the 
foot  of  the  monument  which  he  had  erected  among  the  ruins 
of  the  chapel.  Sometimes  she  read,  sometimes  she  wrote  with 
a  pencil  on  a  small  slate  which  she  carried  with  her,  but  much 
of  her  time  was  passed  in  a  kind  of  reverie. 

The  people  about  the  place  gradually  became  accustomed  to 
her,  and  suffered  her  to  wander  about  unmolested ;  their  dis- 
trust of  her  subsided  on  discovering  that  most  of  her  peculiar 
and  lonely  habits  arose  from  the  misfortune  of  being  deaf  and 
dumb.  Still  she  was  regarded  with  some  degree  of  shyness, 
for  it  was  the  common  opinion  that  she  was  not  exactly  in  her 
right  mind. 

Colonel  Wildman's  sister  was  informed  of  all  these  circum- 
stances by  the  servants  of  the  Abbey,  among  whom  the  Little 
White  Lady  was  a  theme  of  frequent  discussion.  The  Abbey 
and  its  monastic  environs  being  haunted  ground,  it  was  natural 
that  a  mysterious  visitant  of  the  kind,  and  one  supposed  to  be 
under  the  influence  of  mental  hallucination,  should  inspire  awe 
in  a  person  unaccustomed  to  the  place.  As  Colonel  Wildman's 
sister  was  one  day  walking  along  a  broad  terrace  of  the  garden, 
she  suddenly  beheld  the  Little  White  Lady  coming  toward  her, 
and,  in  the  surprise  and  agitation  of  the  moment,  turned  and 
ran  into  the  house. 


THE  LITTLE    WHITE  LADY.  113 

Daj  after  day  now  elapsed,  and  nothing  more  was  seen  of 
this  singular  personage.  Colonel  Wildman  at  length  arrived 
at  the  Abbey,  and  his  sister  mentioned  to  him  her  rencounter 
and  fright  in  the  garden.  It  brought  to  mind  his  own  adven- 
ture with  the  Little  White  Lady  in  the  wood  of  Undine,  and 
he  was  surprised  to  find  that  she  still  continued  her  mysterious 
wanderings  about  the  Abbey.  The  mystery  was  soon  explained. 
Immediately  after  his  arrival  he  received  a  letter  written  in  the 
ininute  and  delicate  female  hand,  and  in  elegant  and  even 
eloquent  language.  It  was  from  the  Little  White  Lady.  She 
had  noticed  and  been  shocked  by  the  abrupt  retreat  of  Colonel 
Wildnians  sister  on  seeing  her  in  the  garden  walk,  and  ex- 
pressed her  unhappiness  at  being  an  object  of  alarm  to  any  of 
his  family.  She  explained  the  motives  of  her  frequent  and 
long  visits  to  the  Abbey,  which  proved  to  be  a  singularly  enthu- 
siastic idolatry  of  the  genius  of  Lord  Byron,  and  a  solitary  and 
passionate  delight  in  haunting  the  scenes  he  had  once  inhabited. 
She  hinted  at  the  infirmities  which  cut  her  off  from  all  social 
communion  with  her  fellow  beings,  and  at  her  situation  in  life 
as  desolate  and  bereaved;  and  concluded  by  hoping  that  he 
would  not  deprive  her  of  her  only  comfort,  the  permission  of 
visiting  the  Abbey  occasionally,  and  lingering  about  the  walks 
and  gardens. 

Colonel  Wildman  now  made  further  inquiries  concerning 
her,  and  found  that  she  was  a  great  favorite  with  the  people  of 
the  farmhouse  where  she  boarded,  from  the  gentleness,  quie- 
tude, and  innocence  of  her  manners.  When  at  home,  she 
passed  the  greater  part  of  her  time  in  a  small  sitting-room, 
reading  and  writing. 

Colonel  Wildman  immediately  called  on  her  at  the  farm- 
house. She  received  him  with  some  agitation  and  embarrass- 
ment, but  his  frankness  and  urbanity  soon  put  her  at  her  ease. 
She  was  past  the  bloom  of  youth,  a  pale,  nervous  little  being, 
and  apparently  deficient  in  most  of  her  physical  organs,  for  in 
addition  to  being  deaf  and  dumb,  she  saw-  but  imperfectly. 
They  carried  on  a  communication  by  means  of  a  small  slate, 
which  she  drew  out  of  her  reticide,  and  on  which  they  wrote 
their  questions  and  replies.  In  writing  or  reading  she  always 
approached  her  eyes  close  to  the  written  characters. 

This  defective  organization  was  accompanied  by  a  morbid 
sensibility  almost  amounting  to  disease.  She  had  not  been 
born  deaf  and  dumb;  but  had  lost  her  hearing  in  a  fit  of  sick- 
ness, and  with  it  the  power  of  distinct  articulation.     Her  life 


H4  NBW8TBAD   ABBEY. 

had  evidently  been  checkered  and  unhappy;  she  was  appar- 
ently without  family  or  friend,  a  lonely,  desolate  being,  cut  off 
from  society  by  her  infirmities. 

"I  am  always  among  strangers,"  she  said,  "as  much  so  in 
my  native  country  as  I  could  be  in  the  remotest  parts  of  the 
world.  By  all  I  am  considered  as  a  stranger  and  an  alien ;  no 
one  will  acknowledge  any  connection  with  me.  I  seem  not  to 
belong  to  the  human  species." 

Such  were  the  circumstances  that  Colonel  Wildman  was  able 
to  draw  forth  in  the  course  of  his  conversation,  and  they  strongly 
interested  him  in  favor  of  this  poor  enthusiast.  He  was  too 
devout  an  admirer  of  Lord  Byron  himself,  not  to  sympathize 
in  this  extraordinary  zeal  of  one  of  his  votaries,  and  he  en- 
treated her  to  renew  her  visits  at  the  Abbey,  assuring  her  that 
the  edifice  and  its  grounds  should  always  be  open  to  her. 

The  Little  White  Lady  now  resumed  her  daily  walks  in  the 
Monk's  Garden,  and  her  occasional  seat  at  the  foot  of  the 
monument ;  she  w^as  shy  and  diffident,  however,  and  evidently 
fearful  of  intruding.  If  any  persons  were  walking  in  the  gar- 
den she  would  avoid  them,  and  seek  the  most  remote  parts ; 
and  was  seen  like  a  sprite,  only  by  gleams  and  glimpses,  as  she 
glided  among  the  groves  and  thickets.  Many  of  her  feelings 
and  fancies,  during  these  lonely  rambles,  were  embodied  in 
verse,  noted  down  on  her  tablet,  and  transferred  to  paper  in 
the  evening  on  her  return  to  the  farmhouse.  Some  of  these 
verses  now  lie  before  me,  written  with  considerable  harmony 
of  versification,  but  chiefly  curious  as  being  illustrative  of  that 
singular  and  enthusiastic  idolatry  with  which  she  almost  wor- 
shipped the  genius  of  Byron,  or  rather,  the  romantic  image  of 
him  formed  by  her  imagination. 

Two  or  three  extracts  may  not  be  unacceptable.  The  follow 
ing  are  from  a  long  rhapsody  addressed  to  Lord  byron : 

"  By  what  dread  charm  thou  rulest  the  mind 
It  is  not  given  for  us  to  know ; 
We  glow  with  feelings  undefined, 
Nor  can  explain  from  whence  they  flow. 

"  Not  that  fond  love  which  passion  breathes 
And  youthful  hearts  inflame ; 
The  soul  a  nobler  homage  gives, 
And  bows  to  thy  great  name. 

"  Oft  have  we  own'd  the  muses'  skill, 
And  proved  the  power  of  song, 
But  sweeter  notes  ne'er  woke  the  thrill 
That  solely  to  thy  verse  belong. 


THE  LITTLE    WHITE  LADY.  115 

"  This— but  far  more,  for  thee  we  prove, 
Something  that  bears  a  holier  name, 
Than  the  pure  dream  of  early  love, 
Or  friendship's  nobler  flame. 

"  Something  divine— Oh !  what  it  is 
Thy  muse  alone  can  tell, 
So  sweet,  but  so  profound  the  bliss 
We  dread  to  break  the  spell.'* 

This  singular  and  romantic  infatuation,  for  such  it  might 
truly  be  called,  was  entirely  spiritual  and  ideal,  for,  as  she 
herself  declares  in  another  of  her  rhapsodies,  she  had  never 
beheld  Lord  Byron;  he  was,  to  her,  a  mere  phantom  of  the 
brain. 

"  I  ne'er  have  drunk  thy  glance— thy  form 
My  earthly  eye  has  never  seen, 
Though  oft  when  fancy's  visions  warm,     • 
It  greets  me  in  some  blissful  dream. 

"  Greets  me,  as  greets  the  sainted  seer 
Some  radiant  visitant  from  high, 
When  heaven's  own  strains  break  on  his  ear, 
And  wrap  his  soul  in  ecstasy." 

Her  poetical  wanderings  and  musings  were  not  confined  to 
the  Abbey  grounds,  but  extended  to  all  parts  of  the  neighbor- 
hood connected  with  the  memory  of  Lord  Byron,  and  among 
the  rest  to  the  groves  and  gardens  of  Annesley  Hall,  the  seat 
of  his  early  passion  for  Miss  Chaworth.  One  of  her  poetical 
effusions  mentions  her  having  seen  from  Howet's  Hill  in  Annes- 
ley Park,  a  "sylph-like  form, "in  a  car  drawn  by  milk-white 
horses,  passing  by  the  foot  of  the  hill,  who  proved  to  be  the 
"favorite  child,"  seen  by  Lord  Byron,  in  his  memorable  inter- 
view with  Miss  Chaworth  after  her  marriage.  That  favorite 
child  was  now  a  blooming  girl  approaching  to  womanhood,  and 
seems  to  have  understood  something  of  the  character  and  story 
of  this  singular  visitant,  and  to  have  treated  her  with  gentle 
sympathy.  The  Little  White  Lady  expresses,  in  touching 
terms,  in  a  note  to  her  verses,  her  sense  of  this  gentle  courtesy. 
"The  benevolent  condescension,"  says  she,  "of  that  amiable 
and  interesting  young  lady,  to  the  unfortunate  writer  of  these 
simple  lines  will  remain  engraved  upon  a  grateful  memory,  till 
the  vital  spark  that  now  animates  a  heart  that  too  sensibly 
feels,  and  too  seldom  experiences  such  kindness,  is  forever 
extinct. " 
-    In  the  mean  time,  Colonel  Wildman,  in  occasional  interviews. 


116  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY. 

had  obtained  further  particulars  of  the  story  of  the  stranger, 
and  found  that  poverty  was  added  to  the  other  evils  of  her  for- 
lorn and  isolated  state.  Her  name  was  Sophia  Hyatt.  She 
was  the  daughter  of  a  country  bookseller,  but  both  her  parents 
had  died  several  years  before.  At  their  death,  her  sole  depend- 
ence was  upon  her  brother,  who  allowed  her  a  small  annuity  on : 
her  share  of  the  property  left  by  their  father,  and  which  re- 
mained in  his  hands.  Her  brother,  who  was  a  captain  of  a 
merchant  vessel,  removed  with  his  family  to  America,  leaving 
her  almost  alone  in  the  world,  for  she  had  no  other  relative  in 
England  but  a  cousin,  of  whom  she  knew  almost  nothing.  She 
received  her  annuity  regularly  for  a  time,  but  unfortunately 
her  brother  died  in  the  West  Indies,  leaving  his  affairs  in  con- 
fusion, and  his  estate  overhung  by  several  commercial  claims, 
which  threatened  to  swallow  up  the  whole.  Under  these  dis- 
astrous circumstances,  her  annuity  suddenly  ceased ;  she  had 
in  vain  tried  to  obtain  a  renewal  of  it  from  the  widow,  or  even 
an  account  of  the  state  of  her  brother's  affairs.  Her  letters  for 
three  years  past  had  remained  unanswered,  and  she  would 
have  been  exposed  to  the  horrors  of  the  most  abject  want,  but 
for  a  pittance  quarterly  doled  out  to  her  by  her  cousin  in 
England. 

Colonel  Wildman  entered  with  characteristic  benevolence 
into  the  story  of  her  troubles.  He  saw  that  she  was  a  helpless, 
unprotected  being,  unable,  from  her  infirmities  and  her  igno- 
rance of  the  world,  to  prosecute  her  just  claims.  He  obtained 
from  her  the  address  of  her  relations  in  America,  and  of  the 
commercial  connection  of  her  brother ;  promised,  through  the 
medium  of  his  own  agents  in  Liverpool,  to  institute  an  inquiry 
into  the  situation  of  her  brother's  affairs,  and  to  forward  any 
letters  she  might  write,  so  as  to  insure  their  reaching  their 
place  of  destination. 

Inspired  with  some  faint  hopes,  the  Little  White  Lady  con- 
tinued her  wanderings  about  the  Abbey  and  its  neighoorhood. 
The  delicacy  and  timidity  of  her  deportment  increased  the 
interest  already  felt  for  her  by  Mrs.  Wildman.  TViat  lady, 
with  her  wonted  kindness,  sought  to  make  acquaintance  with 
her,  and  inspire  her  with  confidence.  She  invited  her  into  the 
Abbey ;  treated  her  with  the  most  delicate  attention,  and,  see- 
ing that  she  had  a  great  turn  for  reading,  offered  her  the  loan 
of  any  books  in  her  possession.  She  borrowed  a  few,  particu- 
larly the  works  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  but  soon  returned  them ; 
the  writings  of  Lord  Byron  seemed  to  form  the  only  study  in 


THE  LITTLE    WHITE  LADY.  117 

which  she  delighted,  and  when  not  occupied  in  reading  those, 
her  time  was  passed  in  passionate  meditations  on  his  genius. 
Her  enthusiasm  spread  an  ideal  world  around  her  in  which  she 
moved  and  existed  as  in  a  dream,  forgetful  at  times  of  the  real 
miseries  which  beset  her  in  her  mortal  state. 

One  of  her  rhapsodies  is,  however,  of  a  very  melancholy 
cast;  anticipating  her  own  death,  which  her  fragile  frame  and 
growing  infirmities  rendered  but  too  probable.  It  is  headed  by 
the  following  paragraph. 

"Written  beneath  the  tree  on  Crowholt  Hill,  where  it  is  my 
wish  to  be  interred  (if  I  should  die  in  Newstead)." 

I  subjoin  a  few  of  the  stanzas :  they  are  addressed  to  Lord 
Byron : 

"  Thou,  wliile  thou  stand'st  beneath  this  tree, 
While  by  thy  foot  this  earth  is  press'd, 
Think,  here  the  wanderer's  ashes  be — 
And  -wilt  thou  say,  sweet  be  thy  rest! 


"  'Twould  add  even  to  a  seraph's  bliss, 

Whose  sacred  charge  thou  then  may  be, 
To  guide— to  guard— yes,  Byron!  yes, 
That  glory  is  reserved  for  me." 

"  If  woes  below  may  plead  above 

A  frail  heart's  errors,  mine  forgiven, 

To  that  •  high  world '  I  soar,  where  '  love 

Surviving'  forms  the  bliss  of  Heaven. 

"  O  wheresoe'er,  in  realms  above, 
Assign'd  my  spirit's  new  abode, 
'Twill  watch  thee  with  a  seraph"s  love, 
Till  thou  too  soar'st  to  meet  thy  God. 

"  And  here,  beneath  this  lonely  tree- 
Beneath  the  earth  thy  feet  have  press'd, 
My  dust  shall  sleep— once  dear  to  thee 
These  scenes— here  mav  the  wanderer  rest!" 

In  the  midst  of  her  reveries  and  rhapsodies,  tidings  reached 
Newstead  of  the  untimely  death  of  Lord  Byron.  How  they 
were  received  by  this  humble  but  passionate  devotee  I  could 
not  ascertain;  her  life  was  too  obscure  and  lonely  to  furnish 
much  personal  anecdote,  but  among  her  poetical  effusions 
are  several  written  in  a  broken  and  irregular  manner,  and 
evidently  under  great  agitation. 

The  following  sonnet  is  the  most  coherent  and  most  de- 
scriptive of  her  peculiar  state  of  mind ; 


118  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY. 

"Well,  thou  art  gone— but  what  wert  thou  to  me? 

I  never  saw  thee— never  heard  thy  voice, 
Yet  my  soul  seemed  to  claim  affiance  with  thee. 

The  Roman  hard  lias  sung  of  fields  Elysian, 
Where  the  soul  sojourns  ere  she  visits  earth; 

Sure  it  was  there  my  spirit  knew  thee,  Byron  1 
Thine  image  haunted  me  like  a  past  vision; 

It  hath  enshrined  itself  in  my  heart's  core; 
'Tis  my  soul's  soul  -it  tills  the  whole  creation. 

For  I  do  live  but  in  that  world  ideal 
Which  the  muse  peopled  w  it li  her  bright  fancies, 

And  of  that  world  thou  art  a  monarch  real, 
Nor  ever  earthly  sceptre  ruled  a  kingdom, 

With  sway  so  potent  as  thy  lyre,  the  mind's  dominion." 

Taking  all  the  circumstances  here  adduced  into  considera- 
tion, it  is  evident  that  tins  strong  excitement  and  exclusive 
occupation  of  the  mind  upon  one  subject,  operating  upon  a 
system  in  a  high  state  of  morbid  irritability,  was  in  danger  of 
producing  that  species  of  mental  derangement  called  mono- 
mania. The  poor  little  being  was  aware,  lierself ,  of  the  dangers 
of  her  case,  and  alluded  to  it  in  the  following  passage  of  a 
letter  to  Colonel  Wildman,  which  presents  one  of  the  most 
lamentable  pictures  of  anticipated  evil  ever  conjured  up  by  the 
human  mind. 

"I  have  long,"  writes  she,  "  too  sensibly  felt  the  decay  of 
my  mental  faculties,  which  I  consider  as  the  certain  indication 
of  that  dreaded  calamity  which  I  anticipate  with  such  terror. 
A  strange  idea  has  long  haunted  my  mind,  that  Swift's  dread- 
ful fate  will  be  mine.  It  is  not  ordinary  insanity  I  so  much 
apprehend,  but  something  worse — absolute  idiotism! 

"  O  sir !  think  what  I  must  suffer  from  such  an  idea,  without 
an  earthly  friend  to  look  up  to  for  protection  in  such  a  wretched 
state — exposed  to  the  indecent  insults  which  such  spectacles 
always  excite.  But  I  dare  not  dwell  upon  the  thought:  it 
would  facilitate  the  event  I  so  much  dread,  and  contemplate 
with  horror.  Yet  I  cannot  help  thinking  from  people's  be- 
havior to  me  at  times,  and  from  after  reflections  upon  my  con- 
duct, that  symptoms  of  the  disease  are  already  apparent." 

Five  months  passed  away,  but  the  letters  written  by  her, 
and  forwarded  by  Colonel  Wildman  to  America  relative  to 
her  brother's  affairs,  remained  unanswered;  the  inquiries  in- 
stituted by  the  Colonel  had  as  yet  proved  equally  fruitless.  A 
deeper  gloom  and  despondency  now  seemed  to  gather  upon  her 
mind.  She  began  to  talk  of  leaving  Newstead,  and  repairing 
to  London,  in  the  vague  hope  of  obtaining  relief  or  redress  by 


THE   LITTLE    WHITE  LADY.  119 

instituting  some  legal  process  to  ascertain  and  enforce  the  will 
of  her  deceased  brother.  Weeks  elapsed,  however,  before  she 
could  summon  up  sufficient  resolution  to  tear  herself  away 
from  the  scene  of  poetical  fascination.  The  following  simple 
stanzas,  selected  from  a  number  written  about  the  time,  ex- 
press, in  humble  rhymes,  the  melancholy  that  preyed  upon  her 
spirits : 

"  Farewell  to  thee.  Newstead.  thy  time-riven  towers, 
Shall  meet  the  fond  gaze  of  the  pilgrim  no  more; 
No  more  may  she  roam  through  thy  walks  and  thy  bowers, 
Nor  muse  in  thy  cloisters  at  eve's  pensive  hour* 

M  Oh.  how  shall  I  leave  you.  ye  hills  and  ye  dales, 

When  lost  in  sad  musing,  though  sad  not  unblest, 
A  lone  pilgrim  I  stray-— Ah !  in  these  lonely  vales, 
I  hoped,  vainly  hoped,  that  the  pilgrim  might  rest. 

"  Yet  rest  is  far  distant— in  the  dark  vale  of  death, 
Alone  I  shall  find  it.  an  outcast  forlorn — 
But  hence  vain  complaints.. though  by  fortune  bereft 
Of  all  that  could  solace  in  life's  early  morn. 

"  Is  not  man  from  his  birth  doomed  a  pilgrim  to  roam 

O'er  the  world's  dreary  wilds,  whence  by  fortune's  rude  gust. 
In  his  path,  if  some  flowret  of  joy  chanced  to  bloom, 
It  is  torn  and  its  foliage  laid  low  in  the  dust." 

At  length  she  fixed  upon  a  day  for  her  departure.  On  the 
day  previous,  she  paid  a  farewell  visit  to  the  Abbey;  wander- 
ing over  every  part  of  the  grounds  and  garden;  pausing  and 
lingering  at  every  place  particularly  associated  with  the  recol- 
lection of  Lord  Byron ;  and  passing  a  long  time  seated  at  the 
foot  of  the  monument,  which  she  used  to  call  "her  altar/' 
Seeking  Mrs.  Wfldman,  she  placed  in  her  hands  a  sealed  packet, 
with  an  earnest  request  that  she  would  not  open  it  until  after 
her  departure  from  the  neighborhood.  This  done,  she  took  an 
affectionate  leave  of  her,  and  with  many  bitter  tears  bade  fare- 
well to  the  Abbey. 

On  retiring  to  her  room  that  evening,  Mrs.  Wildman  could 
not  refrain  from  inspecting  the  legacy  of  this  singular  being. 
On  opening  the  packet,  she  found  a  number  of  fugitive  poems, 
written  in  a  most  delicate  and  minute  hand,  and  evidently  the 
fruits  of  her  reveries  and  meditations  during  her  lonely  ram- 
bles ;  from  these  the  foregoing  extracts  have  been  made.  These 
were  accompanied  by  a  voluminous  letter,  written  with  the 
pathos  and  eloquence  of  genuine  feeling,  and  depicting  her 


220  *  YBW8TBAD   ABBEY. 

X^eculiar  situation  and  singular  state  of  mind  in  dark  but  pain* 
ful  colors.  # 

"  The  last  time,"  says  she,  "  that  I  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
you,  in  the  garden,  you  asked  me  why  I  leave  Newstead ;  when 
I  told  you  my  circumstances  obliged  me,  the  expression  of  con- 
cern which  I  fancied  I  observed  in  your  look  and  manner  would 
have  encouraged  me  to  have  been  explicit  at  the  time,  but  from 
my  inability  of  expressing  myself  verbally." 

She  then  goes  on  t<>  detail  precisely  her  pecuniary  circum- 
stance' h;  which  it  appears  that  her  whole  dependence  for 
subsisten:'<'  was  on  an  allowance  of  thirteen  pounds  a  year 
fron*  Ik  cousin,  who  bestowed  it  through  a  feeling  of  pride, 
lest  hie  relative  should  come  upon  the  parish.  During  two 
years  this  pittance  had  been  augmented  from  other  sources, 
to  twenty-three  pounds,  but  the  last  year  it  had  shrunk  within 
itc  original  bounds,  and  was  yielded  so  grudgingly,  that  she 
coidd  not  feel  sure  of  its  continuance  from  one  quarter  to  an- 
other More  than  once  it  had  been  withheld  on  slight  pre- 
tences, and  she  was  in  constant  dread  lest  it  should  be  en- 
tirely withdrawn. 

"  It  is  with  extreme  reluctance,"  observed  she,  "  that  I  have 
so  far  exposed  my  unfortunate  situation ;  but  I  thought  you 
expected  to  know  something  more  of  it,  and  I  feared  that 
Colonel  Wildman,  deceived  by  appearances,  might  think  that  I 
am  in  no  immediate  want,  and  that  the  delay  of  a  few  weeks, 
or  months,  respecting  the  inquiry,  can  be  of  no  material  con- 
sequence. It  is  absolutely  necessary  to  the  success  of  the  busi- 
ness that  Colonel  Wildman  should  know  the  exact  state  of  my 
circumstances  without  reserve,  that  he  may  be  enabled  to  make 
a  correct  representation  of  them  to  any  gentleman  whom  he 
intends  to  interest,  who,  I  presume,  if  they  are  not  of  America 
themselves,  have  some  connections  there,  through  whom  my 
friends  may  be  convinced  of  the  reality  of  my  distress,  if  they 
pretend  to  doubt  it,  as  I  suppose  they  do.  But  to  be  more  ex- 
plicit is  impossible ;  it  would  be  too  humiliating  to  particularize 
the  circumstances  of  the  embarrassment  in  which  I  am  un- 
happily involved— my  utter  destitution.  To  disclose  all  might, 
too,  be  liable  to  an  inference  which  I  hope  I  am  not  so  void  of 
delicacy,  of  natural  pride,  as  to  endure  the  thought  of.  Pardon 
me,  madam,  for  thus  giving  trouble,  where  I  have  no  right  to 
do— compelled  to  throw  myself  upon  Colonel  Wildman's  hu- 
manity, to  entreat  his  earnest  exertions  in  my  behalf,  for  it  is 
now  my  only  resource.     Yet  do  not  too  much  despise  me  for 


TUB  UTILE    WHITE  LADY,  121 

thus  submitting  to  imperious  necessity — it  is  not  love  of  life, 
believe  me  it  is  not.  nor  anxiety  for  its  preservation.  I  cannot 
say,  'There  are  thing's  that  make  the  world  dear  to  me,'— for  in 
the  world  there  is  not  an  object  to  make  me  wish  to  linger 
here  another  hour,  could  I  find  that  rest  and  peace  in  the  g 
which  J.  have  never  found  on  earth,  and  I  fear  will  be  denied 
me  there." 

Another  part  of  her  letter  develops  more  completely  the 
despondency  hinted  at  in  the  conclusion  of  the  foregoing  ex- 
tract—and presents  a  lamentable  instance  of  a  mind  diseased, 
which  sought  in  vain,  amidst  sorrow  and  calamity,  the  sweet 
consolations  of  religious  faith. 

"That  my  existence  has  hitherto  been  prolonged,''  says  she, 
"often  beyond  what  I  have  thought  to  have  been  its  destined 
period,  is  astonishing  to  myself.  Often  when  my  situation  has 
been  as  desperate,  as  hopeless,  or  more  so,  if  possible,  than  it  is 
at  present,  some  unexpected  interposition  of  Providence  has 
rescued  me  from  a  fate  that  has  appeared  inevitable.  I  do  not 
particularly  allude  to  recent  circumstances  or  latter  years,  for 
from  my  earlier  years  I  have  been  the  child  of  Providence- 
then  why  should  I  distrust  its  care  now?  I  do  not  distrust  it 
—neither  do  I  trust  it.  I  feel  perfectly  unanxious,  uncon- 
cerned, and  indifferent  as  to  the  future ;  but  this  is  not  trust  in 
Providence— not  that  trust  which  alone  claims  it  protections.  I 
know  this  is  a  blamable  indifference—it  is  more— for  it  reaches 
to  the  interminable  future.  It  turns  almost  with  disgust  from 
the  bright  prospects  which  religion  offers  for  the  consolation 
and  support  of  the  wretched,  and  to  winch  I  was  early  taught, 
by  an  almost  adored  mother,  to  look  forward  with  hope  and 
joy;  but  to  me  they  can  afford  no  consolation.  Not  that  I 
doubt  the  sacred  truths  that  religion  inculcates.  I  caiun  >t  d<  >ubt 
—though  I  confess  I  have  sometimes  tried  to  do  so,  because  I 
no  longer  wish  for  that  immortality  of  which  it  assures  us. 
My  only  wish  now  is  for  rest  and  peace  endless  rest.  'For 
rest— but  not  to  feel  'tis  rest,'  but  I  cannot  delude  myself  with 
the  hope  that  such  rest  will  be  my  lot.  I  feel  an  internal  evi- 
dence, stronger  than  any  arguments  that  reason  or  religion  can 
enforce,  that  I  have  that  within  me  which  is  imperishable;  thai 
drew  not  its  origin  from  the  'clod  of  the  valley.'  With  tins 
conviction,  but  without  a  hope  to  brighten  the  prospect  of  that 
dread  future: 

"  'I  dare  nol  look  beyond  the  tomb, 
Yet  cannot  hope  for  i"  ace  before.1 


122  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY. 

"Such  an  unhappy  frame  of  mind,  I  am  sure,  madam,  mnst 
excite  your  commiseration.  It  is  perhaps  owing,  in  part  at 
least,  to  the  solitude  in  which  I  have  lived,  I  may  say,  even  in 
the  midst  of  society;  when  I  have  mixed  in  it;  as  my  infirm  - 
ties  entirely  exclude  me  from  that  sweet  intercourse  of  kindred 
spirits— that  sweet  solace  of  refined  conversation;  the  little 
intercourse  I  have  at  any  time  with  those  around  me  cannot  be 
termed  conversation — they  are  not  kindred  spirits — and  even 
where  circumstances  have  associated  me  (but  rarely  Indeed) 
with  superior  and  cultivated  minds,  who  have  not  disdained  to 
admit  me  to  their  society,  they  could  not  by  all  their  generous 
efforts,  even  in  early  youth,  lure  from  my  dark  soul  the 
thoughts  that  loved  to  lie  buried  there,  nor  inspire  me  with  the 
courage  to  attempt  their  disclosure ;  and  yet  of  all  the  pleasures 
of  polished  life  which  fancy  has  often  pictured  to  me  in  such 
vivid  colors,  there  is  not  one  that  I  have  so  ardently  coveted 
as  that  sweep  reciprocation  of  ideas,  the  supreme  bliss  of  en- 
lightened mhids  in  the  hour  of  social  converse.  But  this  I 
knew  was  not  decreed  for  me — 

"  'Yet  this  was  in  my  nature—' 

but  since  the  loss  of  my  hearing  I  have  always  been  incapable 
of  verbal  conversation.  I  need  not,  however,  inform  you, 
madam,  of  this.  At  the  first  interview  with  which  you  favored 
me,  you  quickly  discovered  my  peculiar  unhappiness  in  this 
respect ;  you  perceived  from  my  maimer  that  any  attempt  to 
draw  me  into  conversation  would  be  in  vain — had  it  been 
otherwise,  perhaps  you  would  not  have  disdained  now  and 
then  to  have  soothed  the  lonely  wanderer  with  yours.  I  have 
sometimes  fancied  when  I  have  seen  you  in  the  walk,  that  you 
seemed  to  wish  to  encourage  me  to  throw  myself  in  your  way. 
Pardon  me  if  my  imagination,  too  apt  to  beguile  me  with  such 
dear  illusions,  has  deceived  me  into  too  presumptuous  an  idea 
here.  You  must  have  observed  that  I  generally  endeavored 
to  avoid  both  you  and  Colonel  Wildman.  It  was  to  spare  your 
generous  hearts  the  pain  of  witnessing  distress  you  could  not 
alleviate.  Thus  cut  off,  as  it  were,  from  all  human  society,  I 
have  been  compelled  to  live  in  a  world  of  my  own,  and  certainly 
with  the  beings  with  which  my  world  is  peopled,  I  am  at  no 
loss  to  converse.  But,  though  I  love  solitude  and  am  never  in 
want  of  subjects  to  amuse  my  fancy,  yet  solitude  too  much  in- 
dulged in  must  necessarily  have  an  unhappy  effect  upon  the 
mind,  which,  when  left  to  seek  for  resources  wholly  within  it- 


THE  LITTLE    WHITE  LADY.  123 

self  will,  unavoidably,  in  hours  of  gloom  and  despondency, 
brood  over  corroding  thoughts  that  prey  upon  the  spirits,  and 
sometimes  terminate  in  confirmed  misanthropy— especially 
with  those  who,  from  constitution,  or  early  misfortunes,  are 
inclined  to  melancholy,  and  to  view  human  nature  in  its  dark 
shades.  And  have  I  not  cause  for  gloomy  reflections?  The 
utter  loneliness  of  my  lot  would  alone  have  rendered  existence 
a  curse  to  one  whom  nature  has  formed  glowing  with  all  the 
warmth  of  social  affection,  yet  without  an  object  on  which  to 
place  it— without  one  natural  connection,  one  earthly  friend  to 
appeal  to,  to  shield  me  from  the  contempt,  indignities,  and  in- 
sults, to  which  my  deserted  situation  continually  exposed  me." 

I  am  giving  long  extracts  from  this. letter,  yet  I  cannot  refrain 
from  subjoining  another  letter,  which  depicts  her  feelings  with 
respect  to  Newstead. 

"Permit  me,  madame,  again  to  request  your  and  Colonel 
Wildman's  acceptance  of  these  acknowledgments  which  I  can- 
not too  often  repeat,  for  your  unexampled  goodness  to  a  rude 
stranger.  I  know  I  ought  not  to  have  taken  advantage  of  your 
extreme  good  nature  so  frequently  as  I  have.  I  should  have 
absented  myself  from  your  garden  during  the  stay  of  the 
company  at  the  Abbey,  but,  as  I  knew  I  must  be  gone  long 
before  they  would  leave  it,  I  could  not  deny  myself  the  indul- 
gence, as  you  so  freely  gave  me  your  permission  to  continue 
my  walks,  but  now  they  are  at  an  end.  I  have  taken  my  last 
farewell  of  every  dear  and  interesting  spot,  which  I  now  never 
hope  to  see  again,  unless  my  disembodied  spirit,  may  be  per- 
mitted to  revisit  them. — Yet  O !  if  Providence  should  enable  me 
again  to  support  myself  with  any  degree  of  respectability,  and 
you  should  grant  me  some  little  humble  shed,  with  what  joy 
shall  I  return  and  renew  my  delightful  rambles.  But  dear  as 
Newstead  is  to  me,  I  will  never  again  come  under  the  same  un 
happy  circumstances  as  I  have  this  last  time — never  without 
the  means  of  at  least  securing  myself  from  contempt.  How 
dear,  how  very  dear  Newstead  is  to  mc\  how  unconquerable 
the  infatuation  that  possesses  me,  I  am  now  going  to  give  a  too 
convincing  proof.  In  offering  to  your  acceptance  the  worthless 
trifles  that  will  accompany  this,  I  hope  you  will  believe  that 
I  have  no  view  to  your  amusement.  I  dare  not  hope  that 
the  consideration  of  their  being  the  products  of  your  own  gar- 
den, and  most  of  them  written  there,  in  my  little  tablet,  while 
sitting  at  the  foot  of  my  Altar— I  could  not,  I  cannot  resist  the 
earnest  desire  of  leaving  this  memorial  of  the  many  happy 


124  NEWSTEAD  ABBEY. 

hours  I  have  there  enjoyed.  Oh !  do  not  reject  them,  madam; 
suffer  them  to  remain  with  you,  and  if  you  should  deign  to 
honor  them  with  a  perusal,  when  you  read  them  repress,  if  you 
can,  the  smile  that  I  know  will  too  naturally  arise,  when  you 
recollect  the  appearance  of  the  wretched  heing  who  has  dared 
to  devote  her  whole  soul  to  the  contemplation  of  such  more 
than  human  excellence.  Yet,  ridiculous  as  such  devotion  may 
appear  to  some.  I  must  take  leave  to  say,  that  if  the  sentiments 
which  I  have  entertained  for  that  exalted  being  could  be  duly 
appreciated,  I  trust  they  would  be  found  to  be  of  such  a  nature 
as  is  no  dishonor  even  for  him  to  have  inspired. "  .... 

"I  am  now  eoming  to  take  a  last,  last  view  of  scenes  too 
deeply  impressed  upon  my  memory  ever  to  be  effaced  even  by 
madness  itself.  O  madam!  may  you  never  know,  nor  be  able 
to  conceive  the  agony  L  endure  in  tearing  myself  from  all  that 
the  world  contains  of  dear  and  sacred  to  me:  the  only  spot  on 
earth  where  I  can  ever  hope  for  peace  or  comfort.  May  every 
blessing  the  world  has  to  bestow  attend  you,  or  rather,  may 
you  long,  long  live  in  the  enjoyment  of  the  delights  of  your 
own  paradise,  in  secret  seclusion  from  a  world  that  has  no  real 
blessings  to  bestow.  Now  I  go— but  O  might  I  dare  to  hope 
that  when  you  are  enjoying  these  blissful  scenes,  a  thought  of 
the  unhappy  wanderer  might  sometimes  cross  your  mind, 
how  soothing  would  such  an  idea  be,  if  I  dared  to  indulge  it  — 
could  you  see  my  heart  at  this  moment,  how  needless  would  it 
be  to  assure  you  of  the  respectful  gratitude,  the  affectionate 
esteem,  this  heart  must  ever  bear  you  both." 

The  effect  of  this  letter  upon  the  sensitive  heart  of  Mrs. 
Wildman  may  be  more  readily  conceived  than  expressed. 
Her  first  impulse  was  to  give  a  home  to  this  poor  homeless 
being,  and  to  fix  her  in  the  midst  of  those  scenes  which  formed 
her  earthly  paradise.  She  communicated  her  wishes  to  Colo- 
nel Wildman,  and  they  met  with  an  immediate  response  in  his 
generous  bosom.  It  was  settled  on  the  spot,  that  an  apartment 
should  be  fitted  up  for  the  Little  White  Lady  in  one  of  the  new 
farmhouses,  and  every  arrangement  made  for  her  comfortable 
and  permanent  maintenance  on  the  estate.  With  a  woman's 
prompt  benevolence,  Mrs.  Wildman,  before  she  laid  her  head 
upon  her  pillow,  wrote  the  following  letter  to  the  destitute 
stranger : 

"Newstead  Abbey, 
"  Tuesday  night,  September  20,  1825. 

M  On  retiring  to  my  bedchamber  this  evening  I  have  opened 


TUB  LITTLE    WlUTh:  LADY.  io;, 

your  letter,  and  cannot  lose  a  moment  in  expressing  to  you  the 
strong  interest  which  it  has  excited  both  in  Colonel  Wild  man 
and  myself,  from  the  details  of  your  peculiar  siimation,  and  the 
delicate,  and.  let  me  add,  elegant  language  in  which  they  are 
conveyed.  I  am  anxious  that  my  note  should  reach  you  pre- 
vious to  your  departure  from  tins  neighborhood,  and  should  be 
truly  happy  if,  by  any  arrangement  for  your  accommodation, 
1  could  prevent  the  necessity  of  your  undertaking  the  journey. 
Colonel  Wildman  begs  me  to  assure  you  that  he  will  use  his 
best  exertions  in  the  investigation  of  those  matters  which  you 
have  confided  to  him,  and  should  you  remain  here  at  present, 
or  return  again  after  a  short  absence,  I  trust  we  shall  find 
means  to  become  better  acquainted,  and  to  convince  you  of 
the  interest  I  feel,  and  the  real  satisfaction  it  would  afford  me 
to  contribute  in  any  way  to  your  comfort  and  happiness.  I 
will  only  now  add  my  thanks  for  the  little  packet  which  I 
received  with  your  letter,  and  I  must  confess  that  the  letter  has 
so  entirely  engaged  my  attention,  that  I  have  not  as  yet  had 
time  for  the  attentive  perusal  of  its  companion. 

4 '  Believe  me,  dear  madam,  with  sincere  good  wishes, 

' '  Yours  truly, 

"  Louisa  Wildman." 

Early  the  next  morning  a  servant  was  dispatched  with  the 
letter  to  the  Weir  Mill  farm,  but  returned  with  the  information 
that  the  Little  White  Lady  had  set  off,  before  his  arrival,  in 
company  with  the  farmer's  wife,  in  a  cart  for  Nottingham,  to 
take  her  place  in  the  coach  for  London.  Mrs.  Wildman  ordered 
him  to  mount  horse  instantly,  follow  with  all  speed,  and  deliveia 
the  letter  into  her  hand  before  the  departure  of  the  coach. 

The  bearer  of  good  tidings  spared  neither  whip  nor  spur,  and 
arrived  at  Nottingham  on  a  gallop.  On  entering  the  town,  a 
crowd  obstructed  him  in  the  principal  street.  'He  checked  his 
horse  to  make  his  way  through  it  quietly.  As  the  crowd 
opened  to  the  right  and  left,  he  beheld  a  human  body  lying  on 
the  pavement. — It  was  the  corpse  of  the  Little  White  Lady ! 

It  seems  that  on  arriving  in  town  and  dismounting  from  the 
cart,  the  farmer's  wife  had  parted  with  her  to  go  on  an  errand, 
and  the  White  Lady  continued  on  toward  the  coach-office.  In 
crossing  a  street  a  cart  came  along,  driven  at  a  rapid  rate. 
The  driver  called  out  to  her,  but  she  was  too  deaf  to  hear  his 
voice  or  tho  rattling  of  his  cart.  In  an  instant  she  was 
knocked  down  by  the  horse,  and  the  wheels  passed  over  her 
body,  and  she  died  without  a  groan. 


WOLFERT'S    ROOST, 


AND 


MISCELLANIES 


BY 


WASHINGTON     IRVING. 


WOLFERT'S  EOOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Chronicle  op  Wolfert's  Roost 11 

Sleepy  Hollow 25 

Birds  of  Spring 35 

Recollections  of  the  Alhambra 40 

Abencerrage 43 

Enchanted  Island 53 

Adelantado  of  the  Seven  Cities 55 

National  Nomenclature 69 

Desultory  Thoughts  on  Criticism 74 

Spanish  Romance 78 

Legend  of  Don  Munio  Sancho  de  Hinojosa 81 

Communipaw 86 

Conspiracy  of  the  Cocked  Hats 93 

Legend  of  Communipaw 98 

Bermudas,  The 109 

Pelayo  and  the  Merchant's  Daughter 119 

Knight  of  Malta 127 

Legend  of  the  Engulphed  Convent 143 

Count  Van  Horn 146 


WOLFERT'S    ROOST 


AXD 


MISCELLANIES. 


A  CHRONICLE  OF  WOLFERT'S  ROOST. 

TO  THE  EDITOR  OF  THE  KNICKERBOCKER. 

Sir  :  I  have  observed  that  as  a  man  advances  in  life,  he  is 
subject  to  a  kind  of  plethora  of  the  mind,  doubtless  occasioned 
by  the  vast  accumulation  of  wisdom  and  experience  upon  the 
brain.  Hence  he  is  apt  to  become  narrative  and  admonitory,  that 
is  to  say.  fond  of  telling  long  stories,  and  of  doling  out  advice,  to 
the  small  profit  and  great  annoyance  of  his  friends.  As  I  have 
a  great  horror  of  becoming  the  oracle,  or.  more  technically  speak- 
ing, the  "  bore."  of  the  domestic  circle,  and  would  much  rather 
bestow  my  wisdom  and  tedlousness  upon  the  world  at  large,  T 
have  always  sought  to  ease  off  this  surcharge  of  the  intellect 
by  means  of  my  pen,  and  hence  have  inflicted  divers  gossiping 
volumes  upon  the  patience  of  the  public.  I  am  tired,  however, 
of  writing  volumes ;  they  do  not  afford  exactly  the  relief  I  re 
quire;  there  is  too  much  preparation,  arrangement,  and  parade, 
in  this  set  form  of  coming  before  the  public.  I  am  growing  too 
indolent  and  unambitious  for  any  thing  that  requires  labor  or 
display.  I  have  thought,  therefore,  of  securing  to  myself  a 
snug  corner  in  some  periodical  work  where  I  might,  as  it  were, 
loll  at  my  ease  in  my  elbow-chair,  and  chat  sociably  with  the 
public,  as  with  an  old  friend,  on  any  chance  subject  that  might 
pop  into  my  brain. 

In  looking  around,  for  this  purpose,  upon  the  various  ex  ■  1- 
lent  periodicals  with  which  our  country  aboimds,  my  eye  wafl 
struck  by  the  title  of  your  work—"  The  Knickerbocker.  "'  My 
heart  leaped  at  the  sight. 


G  WOLWEBTS  1W0ST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 

Diedrich  Knickerbocker,  Sir,  was  one  of  my  earliest  and 
most  valued  friends,  and  the  recollection  of  him  is  associated 
with  some  of  the  pleasantest  scenes  of  my  youthful  days. 
To  explain  this,  and  to  show  how  I  came  into  possession  of 
sundry  of  his  posthumous  works,  which  I  have  from  time  to 
time  given  to  the  world,  permit  me  to  relate  a  few  particulars 
of  our  early  intercourse.  I  give  them  with  the  more  confi- 
dence, as  I  know  the  interest  you  take  in  that  departed  worthy, 
whose  name  and  effigy  are  stamped  upon  your  title-page,  and 
as  they  will  be  found  important  to  the  better  understanding  and 
relishing  divers  communications  I  may  have  to  make  to  you. 

My  first  acquaintance  with  that  great  and  good  man,  for 
such  I  may  venture  to  call  him,  now  that  the  lapse  of  some 
thirty  years  has  shrouded  his  name  with  venerable  antiquity, 
and  the  popular  voice  has  elevated  him  to  the  rank  of  the 
classic  historians  of  yore,  my  first  acquaintance  with  him  was 
formed  on  the  banks  of  the  Hudson,  not  far  from  the  wizard 
region  of  Sleepy  Hollow.  He  had  come  there  in  the  course  of 
his  researches  among  the  Dutch  neighborhoods  for  materials 
for  his  immortal  history.  For  this  purpose,  he  was  ransacking 
the  archives  of  one  of  the  most  ancient  and  historical  man- 
sions in  the  country.  It  was  a  lowly  edifice,  built  in  the  time 
of  the  Dutch  dynasty,  and  stood  on  a  green  bank,  over- 
shadowed by  trees,  from  which  it  peeped  forth  upon  the  Great 
Tappan  Zee,  so  famous  among  early  Dutch  navigators.  A 
bright  pure  spring  welled  up  at  the  foot  of  the  green  bank;  a 
wild  brook  came  babbling  down  a  neighboring  ravine,  and 
threw  itself  iuto  a  little  woody  cove,  in  front  of  the  mansion.  It 
was  indeed  as  quiet  and  sheltered  a  nook  as  the  heart  of  man 
could  require,  in  which  to  take  refuge  from  the  cares  and 
troubles  of  the  world ;  and  as  such,  it  had  been  chosen  in  old 
times,  by  Wolf  ert  Acker,  one  of  the  privy  councillors  of  the  re- 
nowned Peter  Stuyvesant. 

This  worthy  but  ill-starred  man  had  led  a  weary  and  worried 
life,  throughout  the  stormy  reign  of  the  chivalric  Peter,  being 
one  of  those  unlucky  wights  with  whom  the  world  is  ever  at 
variance,  and  who  are  kept  in  a  continual  fume  and  fret,  by  the 
wickedness  of  mankind.  At  the  time  of  the  subjugation  of 
the  province  by  the  English,  he  retired  hither  in  high  dudgeon ; 
with  the  bitter  determination  to  bury  himself  from  the  world, 
and  five  here  in  peace  and  quietness  for  the  remainder  of  his 
days.  In  token  of  this  fixed  resolution,  he  inscribed  over  his 
door  the  favorite  Dutch  motto,  "  Lust  in  Rust,"  (pleasure  in 


A  CithONlGLE  OF  W0LFERT8  ROOST.  7 

repose.)  The  .-iianoion  was  thence  called  "  Wolf  erf  s  Rust  " 
Wolfert's  Rest;  bub  in  process  of  time,  the  name  was  vitiated 
into  Wolfert 's  Roostf,  probably  from  its  quaint  cock-loft  look, 
or  from  its  having  <x  weather-cock  perched  on  every  gable. 
This  name  it  continued  to  bear,  long  after  the  unlucky  Wolfert 
was  driven  forth  once  more  upon  a  wrangling  world,  by  the 
tongue  of  a  termagant  wife;  for  it  passed  into  a  proverb 
through  the  neighborhood,  and  has  been  handed  down  by  tra- 
dition, that  the  cock  of  the  Roost  was  the  most  hen-pecked  bird 
in  the  country. 

This  primitive  and  historical  mansion  has  since  passed 
through  many  changes  and  trials,  which  it  may  be  my  lot 
hereafter  to  notice.  At  the  time  of  the  sojourn  of  Diedrich 
Knickerbocker  it  was  in  possession  of  the  gallant  family  of  the 
Van  Tassels,  who  have  figured  so  conspicuously  in  his  writings. 
What  appears  to  have  given  it  peculiar  value,  in  his  eyes,  was 
the  rich  treasury  of  historical  facts  here  secretly  hoarded  up, 
like  buried  gold ;  for  it  is  said  that  Wolfert  Acker,  when  he  re- 
treated from  New  Amsterdam,  carried  off  with  him  many  of 
the  records  and  journals  of  the  province,  pertaining  to  the 
Dutch  dynasty ;  swearing  that  they  should  never  fall  into  the 
hands  of  the  English.  These,  like  the  lost  books  of  Livy.  had 
baffled  the  research  of  former  historians ;  but  these  did  I  find 
the  indefatigable  Diedrich  diligently  deciphering.  He  was 
already  a  sage  in  years  and  experience,  I  but  an  idle  stripling ; 
yet  he  did  not  despise  my  youth  and  ignorance,  but  took  me 
kindly  by  the  hand,  and  led  me  gently  into  those  paths  of  local 
and  traditional  lore  which  he  was  so  fond  of  exploring.  I  sat 
with  him  in  his  little  chamber  at  the  Roost,  and  watched  the 
antiquarian  patience  and  perseverance  with  which  he  deciphered 
those  venerable  Dutch  documents,  worse  than  Herculanean 
manuscripts.  I  sat  with  him  by  the  spring,  at  the  foot  of  the 
green  bank,  and  listened  to  his  heroic  tales  about  the  wor- 
thies of  the  olden  time,  the  paladins  of  New  Amsterdam.  I 
accompanied  him  in  his  legendary  researches  about  Tarrytown 
and  Sing-Sing,  and  explored  with  him  the  spell-bound  recesses 
of  Sleepy  Hollow.  I  was  present  at  many  of  his  conferences 
with  the  good  old  Dutch  burghers  and  their  wives,  from  whom 
he  derived  many  of  those  marvellous  facts  not  laid  down  in 
books  or  records,  and  which  give  such  superior  value  and 
authenticity  to  his  history,  over  all  others  that  have  been  writ- 
ten concerning  the  New  Netherlan  . 

But  let  me  check  my  proneness  to  dilate  upon  this  favorite 


S  WOLFERTS  ROOST  AM)  MISCELLANIES. 

theme ;  I  may  recur  to  it  hereafter.  Suffice  it  to  say,  the  inti- 
macy thus  formed,  continued  for  a  considerable  time ;  and  in 
company  with  the  worthy  Diedrich,  I  visited  many  of  the 
places  celebrated  by  his  pen.  The  currents  of  our  lives  at 
length  diverged.  He  remained  at  home  to  complete  bis  mighty 
work,  while  a  vagrant  fancy  led  me  to  wander  about  the  world. 
Many,  many  years  elapsed,  before  I  returned  to  the  parent  soil 
In  the  interim,  the  venerable  historian  of  the  New  Netherlands 
bad  been  gathered  to  his  fathers,  but  his  name  had  risen  to 
renown.  His  native  city,  that  city  in  which  he  so  much 
delighted,  had  decreed  all  manner  of  costly  honors  to  his 
memory.  I  found  his  effigy  imprinted  upon  new-year  cakes, 
and  devoured  with  eager  relish  by  holiday  urchins;  a  great 
oyster-house  bore  the  name  of  ' '  Knickerbocker  Hall ;"  and  I 
narrowly  escaped  the  pleasure  of  being  run  over  by  a  Knicker- 
bocker omnibus ! 

Proud  of  having  associated  with  a  man  who  had  achieved 
such  greatness,  I  now  recalled  our  early  intimacy  with  tenfold 
pleasure,  and  sought  to  revisit  the  scenes  we  had  trodden  to- 
gether. The  most  important  of  these  was  the  mansion  of  the 
Van  Tassels,  the  Roost  of  the  unfortunate  Wolfert.  Time, 
which  changes  all  things,  is  but  slow  in  its  operations  upon  a 
Dutchman's  dwelling.  I  found  the  venerable  and  quaint  little 
edifice  much  as  I  had  seen  it  during  the  sojourn  of  Diedrich. 
There  stood  his  elbow-chair  in  the  corner  of  the  room  he  had 
occupied;  the  old-fashioned  Dutch  writing-desk  at  which  he 
had  pored  over  the  chroniples  of  the  Manhattoes ;  there  was 
the  old  wooden  chest,  with  the  archives  left  by  Wolfert  Acker, 
many  of  which,  however,  had  been  fired  off  as  wadding  from 
the  long  duck  gun  of  the  Van  Tassels.  The  scene  around  the 
mansion  was  still  the  same ;  the  green  bank ;  the  spring  beside 
which  I  had  listened  to  the  legendary  narratives  of  the  histo- 
rian ;  the  wild  brook  babbling  down  to  the  woody  cove,  and  the 
overshadowing  locust  trees,  half  shutting  out  the  prospect  of 
the  great  Tappan  Zee. 

As  I  looked  round  upon  the  scene,  my  heart  yearned  at  the 
recollection  of  my  departed  friend,  and  I  wistfully  eyed  the 
mansion  which  he  had  inhabited,  and  which  was  fast  moulder- 
ing to  decay.  The  thought  struck  me  to  arrest  the  desolating 
hand  of  Time ;  to  rescue  the  historic  pile  from  utter  ruin,  and 
to  make  it  the  closing  scene  of  my  wanderings ;  a  quiet  home, 
where  I  might  enjoy  ' '  lust  in  rust"  for  the  remainder  of  my 
lavs.     It  is  true,  the  fate  of  the  unlucky  Wolfert  passed  across 


A    CHRONICLE  OF  WOLFERTS  ROOST.  9 

my  mind ;  but  I  consoled  myself  with  the  reflection  that  I  was 
a  bachelor,  and  that  I  had  no  termagant  wife  to  dispute  the 
sovereignty  of  the  Roost  with  me. 

I  have  become  possessor  of  the  Roost !  I  have  repaired  and 
renovated  it  with  religious  care,  in  the  genuine  Dutch  style, 
and  have  adorned  and  illustrated  it  with  sundry  reliques  of  the 
glorious  days  of  the  New  Netherlands.  A  venerable  weather- 
cock, of  portly  Dutch  dimensions,  which  once  battled  with  the 
wind  on  the  top  of  the  Stadt-House  of  New  Amsterdam,  in  the 
time  of  Peter  Stuy  vesant,  now  erects  its  crest  on  the  gable  end 
of  my  edifice ;  a  gilded  horse  in  full  gallop,  once  the  weather- 
cock of  the  great  Vander  Heyden  Palace  of  Albany,  now  glit- 
ters in  the  sunshine,  and  veers  with  every  breeze,  on  the  peaked 
turret  over  my  portal ;  my  sanctum  sanctorum  is  the  chamber 
once  honored  by  the  illustrious  Diedrich,  and  it  is  from  his 
elbow-chair,  and  his  identical  old  Dutch  writing-desk,  that  I 
pen  this  rambling  epistle. 

Here,  then,  have  I  set  up  my  rest,  surrounded  by  the  recol- 
lections of  early  days,  and  the  mementoes  of  the  historian  of 
the  Manhattoes,  with  that  glorious  river  before  me,  which 
flows  with  such  majesty  through  his  works,  and  which  has 
ever  been  to  me  a  river  of  delight. 

I  thank  God  I  was  born  on  the  banks  of  the  Hudson!  I 
think  it  an  invaluable  advantage  to  be  born  and  brought  up  in 
the  neighborhood  of  some  grand  and  noble  object  in  nature ;  a 
river,  a  lake,  or  a  mountain.  We  make  a  friendship  with  it, 
we  in  a  manner  ally  ourselves  to  it  for  life.  It  remains  an 
object  of  our  pride  and  affections,  a  rallying  point,  to  call  us 
home  again  after  all  our  wanderings.  ' '  The  things  which  we 
have  learned  in  our  childhood,"  says  an  old  writer,  "grow  up 
with  our  souls,  and  unite  themselves  to  it. "  So  it  is  with  the 
scenes  among  which  we  have  passed  our  early  days ;  they  in- 
fluence the  whole  course  of  our  thoughts  and  feelings ;  and  I 
fancy  I  can  trace  much  of  what  is  good  and  pleasant  in  my 
own  heterogeneous  compound  to  my  early  companionship  with 
this  glorious  river.  In  the  warmth  of  my  youthful  enthusiasm, 
I  used  to  clothe  it  with  moral  attributes,  and  almost  to  give  it  a 
soul.  I  admired  its  frank,  bold,  honest  character;  its  noble 
sincerity  and  perfect  truth.  Here  was  no  specious,  smiling 
surface,  covering  the  dangerous  sand-bar  or  perfidious  rock; 
but  a  stream  deep  as  it  was  broad,  and  bearing  with  honorable 
faith  the  bark  that  trusted  to  its  waves.  I  gloried  in  its  simple, 
quiet,  majestic,  epic  flow;  ever  straight  forward.     Once,  in- 


10  WOLFERTS  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 

deed,  it  turns  aside  for  a  moment,  forced  from  its  course  by 
opposing  mountains,  but  it  struggles  bravely  through  them, 
and  immediately  resumes  its  straightforward  march.  Behold^ 
thought  I,  an  emblem  of  a  good  man's  course  through  life; 
ever  simple,  open,  and  direct;  or  if,  overpowered  by  adverse 
circumstances,  he  deviate  into  error,  it  is  but  momentary ;  he 
soon  recovers  his  onward  and  honorable  career,  and  continues 
it  to  the  end  of  his  pilgrimage. 

Excuse  this  rhapsody,  into  which  I  have  been  betrayed  by  a 
revival  of  early  feelings.  The  Hudson  is,  in  a  manner,  my  first 
and  last  love?  and  after  all  my  wanderings  and  seeming  infi- 
delities, I  return  to  it  with  a  heart-felt  preference  over  all  the 
other  rivers  in  the  world.  I  seem  to  catch  new  life  as  I  bathe 
in  its  ample  billows  and  inhale  the  pure  breezes  of  its  hills.  It 
is  true,  the  romince  of  youth  is  past,  that  once  spread  illusions 
over  every  scene.  I  can  no  longer  picture  an  Arcadia  in  every 
green  valley;  nor  a  fairyland  among  the  distant  mountains ; 
nor  a  peerless  beauty  in  every  villa  gleaming  among  the  trees; 
but  though  the  illusions  of  youth  have  faded  from  the  land- 
scape, the  recollections  of  departed  years  and  departed  pleas- 
ures shed  over  it  the  mellow  charm  of  evening  sunshine. 

Permit  me,  then,  Mr.  Editor,  through  the  medium  of  your 
work,  to  hold  occasional  discourse  from  my  retreat  with  the 
busy  world  I  have  abandoned.  J  have  much  to  say  about  what 
I  have  seen,  heard,  felt,  and  thought  through  the  course  of  a 
varied  and  rambling  life,  and  some  lucubrations  that  have  long 
been  encumbering  my  portfolio;  together  with  divers  remi- 
niscences of  the  venerable  historian  of  the  New  Netherlands, 
that  may  not  be  unacceptable  to  those  who  have  taken  an 
interest  in  his  writings,  and  are  desirous  of  any  thing  that  may 
cast  a  light  back  upon  our  early  history.  Let  your  readers 
rest  assured  of  one  thing,  that,  though  retired  from  the  world, 
I  am  not  disgusted  with  it ;  and  that  if  in  my  communings 
with  it  I  do  not  prove  very  wise,  I  trust  I  shall  at  least  prove 
very  good-natured. 
Which  is  all  at  present,  from 

Yours,  etc., 

Geoffrey  Crayon. 

to  the  editor  of  the  knickerbocker. 

Worthy  Sir  :  In  a  preceding  communication,  I  have  given 
you  some  brief  notice  of  Wolfert's  Boost,  the  mansion  where  I 


A    CUllomCLE  or   WOLFERTS  R006T.  11 

first  had  the  good  fortune  to  become  acquainted  with  the  ven- 
erable historian  of  the  Now  Netherlands.  As  this  ancient  edi- 
fice is  likely  to  be  the  place  whence  I  shall  date  many  of  my 
lucubrations,  and  as  it  is  really  a  very  remarkable  little  pile, 
intimately  connected  with  all  the  great  epochs  of  our  local  and 
national  history.  I  have  thought  it  but  right  to  give  some 
farther  particulars  concerning  it.  Fortunately,  in  rummaging 
a  ponderous  Dutch  chest  of  drawers,  which  serves  as  the 
archives  of  the  Roost,  and  in  which  are  preserved  many 
inedited  manuscripts  of  Mr.  Knickerbocker,  together  with  the 
precious  records  of  Xew- Amsterdam,  brought  hither  by  Wolf  ert 
Acker  at  the  downfall  of  the  Dutch  dynasty,  as  has  been 
already  mentioned,  I  found  in  one  corner,  among  dried  pump- 
kin-seeds, bunches  of  thyme,  and  pennyroyal,  and  crumbs  of 
new-year  cakes,  a  manuscript,  carefully  wrapped  up  in  the 
fragment  of  an  old  parchment  deed,  but  much  blotted,  and  the 
ink  grown  foxy  by  time,  which,  on  inspection,  I  discovered  to 
be  a  faithful  chronicle  of  the  Roost.  The  hand-writing,  and 
certain  internal  evidences,  leave  no  doubt  in  my  mind,  that  it 
is  a  genuine  production  of  the  venerable  historian  of  the  New- 
Netherlands,  written,  very  probably,  during  Ins  residence  at 
the  Roost,  in  gratitude  for  the  hospitality  of  its  proprietor. 
As  such.  I  submit  it  for  publication.  As  the  entire  chronicle  is 
too  long  for  the  pages  of  your  Magazine,  and  as  it  contains 
many  minute  particulars,  which  might  prove  tedious  to  the 
general  reader,  I  have  abbreviated  and  occasionally  omitted 
some  of  its  details ;  but  may  hereafter  furnish  them  separately, 
should  they  seem  to  be  required  by  the  curiosity  of  an  enlight- 
ened and  document-hunting  public. 

Respectfully  yours, 

Geoffrey  Crayon. 


A  CHRONICLE  OF  WOLFERTS  ROOST. 

FOUND    AMONG    THE    PAPERS    OF    THE    LATE    DIEDRICH    KNICKER- 
BOCKER. 

About  five-and-twenty  miles  from  the  ancient  and  renowned 
city  of  Manhattan,  formerly  called  New-Amsterdam,  and  vul- 
garly called  New-York,  on  the  eastern  bank  of. that  exp  I 
of  the  Hudson,  known  among  Dutch  marine 


12  tyjOLFERTS  BOOST  AM)   MISCELLANIES. 

Tappan  Zee,  being  in  fact  the  great  Mediterranean  Sea  of  the 
New-Netherlands,  stands  a  little  old-fashioned  stone  mansion, 
all  made  up  of  gable-ends,  and  as  full  of  anglec  and  corners  aa 
an  old  cocked  hat.  Though  but  of  small  dimensions,  yet,  like 
many  small  people,  it  is  of  mighty  spirit,  and  values  itselt 
greatly  on  its  antiquity,  being  one  of  the  oldest  edifices,  for  its 
in  the  whole  country.  It  claims  to  be  an  ancient  seat  ol 
empire,  I  may  rather  say  an  empire  in  itself,  and  like  all  em 
3,  great  and  small,  has  had  its  grand  historical  epochs.  In 
speaking  of  this  doughty  and  valorous  little  pile,  I  shall  call  it 
by  its  usual  appellation  of  "  The  Roost;"  though  that  is  a  name 
given  to  it  in  modern  days,  since  it  became  the  abode  of  the 
white  man. 

Its  origin,  in  truth,  dates  far  back  in  that  remote  region  com- 
monly  called  the  fabulous  age,  in  which  vulgar  fact  becomes 
mystified,  and  tinted  up  with  delectable  fiction.  The  eastern 
shore  of  the  Tappan  Sea  was  inhabited  in  those  days  by  an 
unsophisticated  race,  existing  in  all  the  simplicity  of  nature; 
that  is  to  say.  they  lived  by  hunting  and  fishing,  and  recreated' 
themselves  occasionally  with  a  little  tomahawking  and  scalp- 
ing. Each  stream  that  flows  down  from  the  hills  into  the 
Hudson,  had  its  petty  sachem,  who  ruled  over  a  hand's-breadth 
of  forest  on  either  side,  and  had  his  seat  of  government  at  its 
mouth.  The  chieftain  who  ruled  at  the  Roost,  was  not  merely 
a  great  warrior.  but  a  medicine-man,  or  prophet,  or  conjurer, 
for  they  all  mean  the  same  thing,  in  Indian  parlance.  Of  his 
fighting  propensiti  still  remain,  in  various  arrow- 

heads of  flint,  and  stone  battle-axes,  occasionally  digged  up 
about  the  Roost:  of  his  wizard  powers,  we  have  a  token  in  a 
spring  which  wells  up  at  the  foot  of  the  bank,  on  the  very 
margin  of  the  river,  which,  it  is  said,  was  gifted  by  him  with 
rejuvenating  powers,  something  like  the  renowned  Fountain  of 
Youth  in  the  Floridas,  so  anxiously  but  vainly  sought  after  by 
the  veteran  Ponce  de  Leon.  This  story,  however,  is  stoutly 
contradicted  by  an  old  Dutch  matter-of-fact  tradition,  which 
declares  that  the  spring  in  question  was  smuggled  over  from 
Holland  in  a  churn,  by  Femmetie  Van  Slocum,  wife  of  Goosen 
Garret  Van  Slocum,  one  of  the  first  settlers,  and  that  she  took 
it  up  by  night,  unknown  to  her  husband,  from  beside  their 
farm-house  near  Rotterdam;  being  sure  she  should  find  no 
water  equal  to  it  in  the  new  country— and  she  was  right. 

The  wizard  sachem  had  a  great  passion  for  discussing  terri- 
torial questions,  and  settling  boundary  lines ;  this  kept  him  in 


A  CHRONICLE  OF  W0LFERT8  ROOST.  13 

continual  feud  with  the  neighboring  sachems,  each  of  whom 
stood  up  stoutly  for  his  hand-breadth  of  territory ;  so  that  there 
is  not  a  petty  stream  nor  ragged  hill  in  the  neighborhood,  that 
has  not  been  the  subject  of  long  talks  and  hard  battles.  The 
sachem,  however,  as  has  been  observed,  was  a  medicine-man, 
as  well  as  warrior,  and  vindicated  his  claims  by  arts  as  well  as 
arms ;  so  that,  by  dint  of  a  little  hard  fighting  here,  and  hocus- 
pocus  there,  he  managed  to  extend  his  boundary-line  from  field 
to  field  and  stream  to  stream,  until  he  found  himself  in  legiti- 
mate possession  of  that  region  of  hills  and  valleys,  bright 
fountains  and  limpid  brooks,  locked  in  by  the  mazy  windings 
of  the  Neperan  and  the  Pocantico.* 

This  last-mentioned  stream,  or  rather  the  valley  through 
which  it  flows,  was  the  most  difficult  of  all  his  acquisitions.  It 
lay  half  way  to  the  strong-hold  of  the  redoubtable  sachem  of 
Sing-Sing,  and  was  claimed  by  him  as  an  integral  part  of  his 
domains.  Many  were  the  sharp  conflicts  between  the  rival 
chieftains  for  the  sovereignty  of  this  valley,  and  many  the 
ambuscades,  surprisals,  and  deadly  onslaughts  that  took  place 
among  its  fastnesses,  of  which  it  grieves  me  much  that  I  can- 
not furnish  the  details  for  the  gratification  of  those  gentle  but 
bloody-minded  readers  of  both  sexes,  who  delight  in  the  romance 
of  the  tomahawk  and  scalping-knife.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  the 
wizard  chieftain  was  at  length  victorious,  though  his  victory  is 
attributed  in  Indian  tradition  to  a  great  medicine  or  charm  by 
which  he  laid  the  sachem  of  Sing-Sing  and  his  warriors  asleep 
among  the  rocks  and  recesses  of  the  valley,  where  they  remain 
asleep  to  the  present  day  with  their  bows  and  war-clubs  beside 
them.  This  was  the  origin  of  that  potent  and  drowsy  spell 
which  still  prevails  over  the  valley  of  the  Pocantico,  and  which 
has  gained  it  the  well-merited  appellation  of  Sleepy  Hollow. 
Often,  in  secluded  and  quiet  parts  of  that  valley,  where  the 
stream  is  overhung  by  dark  woods  and  rocks,  the  ploughman, 

*As  every  one  may  not  recognize  these  boundaries  by  their  original  Indian 
names,  it  may  be  well  to  observe,  that  the  Neperan  is  that  beautiful  stream,  vul 
garly  called  the  Saw-Mill  River,  which,  after  winding  gracefully  for  many  miles 
through  a  lovely  valley,  shrouded  by  groves,  and  dotted  by  Dutch  farm-houses, 
empties  itself  into  the  Hudson,  at  the  ancient  dorp  of  Yonkers.  The  Pocantico  is 
that  hitherto  nameless  brook,  that,  rising  anion?  woody  hills,  winds  in  many  a 
wizard  maze  through  the  sequestered  haunts  of  Sleepy  Hollow.  We  owe  it  to  the 
indefatigable  researches  of  Mr.  Knickbrbockbk,  that  those  beautiful  streams  are 
rescued  from  modem  common-place,  and  reinvested  with  their  ancient  Indian 
names.  The  correctness  of  the  venerable  historian  may  be  ascertained,  by  refer- 
ence to  the  records  of  the  original  Indian  grants  to  the  Herr  Frederick  Philipsen, 
preserved  ia  the  county  clerk's  office,  at  White  Plains. 


14  W0LFBRF8  BOOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 

on  some  calm  and  sunny  day  as  he  shouts  to  his  oxen,  is  sur- 
prised at  hearing  faint  shouts  from  the  hill-sides  in  reply; 
being,  it  is  said,  the  spell-bound  warriors,  who  half  start  from 
their  rocky  couches  and  grasp  their  weapons,  but  sink  to  sleep 
again. 

The  conquest  of  the  Pocantico  was  the  last  triumph  of  the 
wizard  sachem.  Notwithstanding  all  his  medicine  and  charms, 
he  fell  in  battle  in  attempting  to  extend  his  boundary  line  to 
the  <  B  to  take  in  the  little  wild  valley  of  the  Sprain, 

and  his  grave  is  still  shown  near  the  banks  of  that  pastoral 
stream.  He  left,  however,  a  great  empire  to  his  successors, 
extending  along  the  Tappan  Zee,  from  Yonkers  quite  to  Sleepy 
Bellow :  all  which  delectable  region,  if  every  one  had  his  right, 
would  still  acknowledge  allegiance  to  the  lord  of  the  Roost— 
whoever  he  might  be.* 

The  wizard  sachem  was  succeeded  by  a  line  of  chiefs,  of 
whom  nothing  remarkable  remains  on  record.  The  last  who 
makes  any  figure  in  history  is  the  one  who  ruled  here  at  the 
time  of  the  discovery  of  the  country  by  the  white  man.  This 
sachem  is  said  to  have  been  a  renowned  trencherman,  who 
maintained  almost  as  potent  a  sway  by  dint  of- good  feeding  as 
bis  warlike  predecessor  had  done  by  hard  fighting.  He  dili- 
gently cultivated  the  growth  of  oysters  along  the  aquatic 
borders  of  his  territories,  and  founded  those  great  oyster-beds 
which  yet  exist  along  the  shores  of  the  Tappan  Zee.  Did  any 
dispute  occur  between  him  and  a  neighboring  sachem,  be  in- 
vited him  and  all  his  principal  sages  and  fighting-men  to  a 
solemn  banquet,  and  seldom  failed  of  feeding  them  into  terms. 
Enormous  heaps  of  oyster-shells,  which  encumber  the  lofty 
banks  of  the  river,  remain  as  monuments  of  his  gastronomical 
victories,  and  have  been  occasionally  adduced  through  mistake 
by  amateur  geologists  from  town,  as  additional  proofs  of  the 
deluge.  Modern  investigators,  who  are  making  such  indefati- 
gable researches  into  our  early  history,  have  even  affirmed  that 
this  sachem  was  the  very  individual  on  whom  Master  Hendrick 
Hudson  and    his    mate,   Robert  Juet,   made  that    sage   and 

*  In  recording  the  contest  for  the  sovereignty  of  Sleepy  Hollow,  I  have  called 
one  sachem  by  the  modern  name  of  his  castle  or  strong-hold,  viz. :  Sing-Sing.  This, 
I  would  observe  for  the  sake  of  historical  exactness,  is  a  corruption  of  the  old 
Indian  name,  O-sin-sing,  or  rather  O-sin-song;  that  is  to  say,  a  place  where  any 
thing  may  be  had  for  a  song— a  great  recommendation  for  a  market  town.  The 
modern  and  melodious  alteration  of  the  name  to  Sing-Sing  is  said  to  have  been 
made  in  compliment  to  an  eminent  Methodist  singing-master,  who  first  introduced 
into  the  neighborhood  the  art  of  singing  through  the  nose.  D.  K. 


A   CHRONICLE  OF  WOLFSBTB  ROOST  \fi 

astounding  experiment  so  gravely  recorded  by  the  latter  in  his 
narrative  of  the  voyage:  "Our  master  and  his  mate  deter- 
mined to  try  some  of  the  cheefe  men  of  the  country  whether 
they  had  any  treacherie  in  them.  So  they  took  them  down 
into  the  cabin  and  gave  them  so  much  wine  and  aqua  vitee 
that  they  were  :M  very  merrie;  one  of  them  had  his  wife  with 
him,  which  sate  so  modestly  as  any  of  our  countrywomen 
would  do  in  a  strange  place.  In  the  end  one  of  them  was 
drunke ;  and  that  was  strange  to  them,  for  they  could  not  tell 
how  to  take  it."* 

How  far  Master  Hendrick  Hudson  and  his  worthy  mate  car- 
ried their  experiment  with  the  sachem's  wife  is  not  recorded, 
neither  does  the  curious  Robert  Juet  make  any  mention  of  the 
after-consequences  of  this  grand  moral  test;  tradition,  how- 
ever, affirms  that  the  sachem  on  landing  gave  his  modest 
spouse  a  hearty  rib-roasting,  according  to  the  connubial  disci- 
pline of  the  aboriginals ;  it  farther  affirms  that  he  remained  a 
hard  drinker  to  the  day  of  his  death,  trading  away  all  his 
lands,  acre  by  acre,  for  aqua  vitse ;  by  which  means  the  Roost 
and  all  its  domains,  from  Yonkers  to  Sleepy  Hollow,  came,  in 
the  regular  course  of  trade  and  by  right  of  purchase,  into  the 
possession  of  the  Dutchmen. 

Never  has  a  territorial  right  in  these  new  countries  been 
more  legitimately  and  tradefully  established;  yet,  I  grieve  to 
say,  the  worthy  government  of  the  New  Netherlands  was  not 
suffered  to  enjoy  this  grand  acquisition  unmolested ;  for,  in  the 
year  1654,  the  losel  Yankees  of  Connecticut — those  swapping, 
bargaining,  squatting  enemies  of  the  Manhattoes— made  a 
doling  inroad  into  this  neighborhood  and  founded  ?  colony 
called  Westchester,  or,  as  the  ancient  Dutch  records  term  it, 
Vest  Dorp,  in  the  right  of  one  Thomas  Pell,  who  pretended  to 
have  purchased  the  whole  surrounding  country  of  the  Indians, 
and  stood  ready  to  argue  their  claims  before  any  tribunal  of 
Christendom. 

This  happened  during  the  chivalrous  reign  of  Peter  Stuyve- 
sant,  and  it  roused  the  ire  of  that  gunpowder  old  hero ;  who, 
without  waiting  to  discuss  claims  and  titfes,  pounced  at  once 
upon  the  nest  of  nefarious  squatters,  carried  off  twenty-five  of 
them  in  chains  to  the  Manhattoes.  nor  did  he  stay  his  hand, 
nor  give  rest  to  his  wooden  leg,  until  he  had  driven  every 
Yankee  back  into  the  bounds  of  Connecticut,  or  obliged  him 

*  See  Juet's  Journal.  Furchas  Pilgrim. 


16  WOLFERTS  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 

to  acknowledge  allegiance  to  their  High  Mightinesses.  He 
then  established  certain  out-posts,  far  in  the  Indian  country, 
to  keep  an  eye  over  these  debateable  lands;  one  of  these 
border-holds  was  the  Roost,  being  accessible  from  New  Amster- 
dam by  water,  and  easily  kept  supplied.  The  Yankees,  how- 
ever, had  too  great  a  hankering  after  this  delectable  region  to 
give  it  up  entirely.  Some  remained  and  swore  allegiance  to 
the  Manhattoes;  but,  while  they  kept  this  open  semblance  of 
fealty,  they  went  to  work  secretly  and  vigorously  to  inter- 
marry and  multiply,  and  by  these  nefarious  means,  artfully 
propagated  themselves  into  possession  of  a  wide  tract  of  those 
open,  arable  parts  of  Westchester  county,  lying  along  the 
Sound,  where  their  descendants  may  be  found  at  the  present 
day;  while  the  mountainous  regions  along  the  Hudson,  with 
the  valleys  of  the  Neperan  and  the  Pocantico,  are  tenaciously 
held  by  the  lineal  descendants  of  the  Copperheads. 


The  chronicle  of  the  venerable  Diedrich  here  goes  on  to  relate 
how  that,  shortly  after  the  above-mentioned  events,  the  whole 
province  of  the  New  Netherlands  was  subjugated  by  the. 
British ;  how  that  Wolfert  Acker,  one  of  the  wrangling  coun- 
cillors of  Peter  Stuyvesant,  retired  in  dudgeon  to  this  fastness 
in  the  wilderness,  determining  to  enjoy  "lust  in  rust"  for  the 
remainder  of  his  days,  whence  the  place  first  received  its  name 
of  Wolfert's  Roost.  As  these  and  sundry  other  matters  have 
been  laid  before  the  public  in  a  preceding  article,  I  shall  pass 
them  over,  and  resume  the  chronicle  where  it  treats  of  matters 
not  hitherto  recorded : 

Like  many  men  who  retire  from  a  worrying  world,  says 
Diedrich  Knickerbocker,  to  enjoy  quiet  in  the  country,  Wol- 
fert Acker  soon  found  himself  up  to  the  ears  in  trouble.  He 
had  a  termagant  wife  at  home,  and  there  was  what  is  profanely 
called  "the  deuce  to  pay,"  abroad.  The  recent  irruption  of 
the  Yankees  into  the  bounds  of  the  New  Netherlands,  had  left 
behind  it  a  doleful  pestilence,  such  as  is  apt  to  follow  the  steps 
of  invading  armies.  This  was  the  deadly  plague  of  witchcraft, 
which  had  long  been  prevalent  to  the  eastward.  The  malady 
broke  out  at  Vest  Dorp,  and  threatened  to  spread  throughout 
the  country.  The  Dutch  burghers  along  the  Hudson,  from 
Yonkers  to  Sleepy  Hollow,  hastened  to  nail  horse-shoes  to  their 
doors,  which  have  ever  been  found  of  sovereign  virtue  to  repel 


A   CHRONICLE  OF  WOLFERTS  BOOST.  17 

this  awful  visitation.  This  is  the  origin  of  the  horse-shoes 
which  may  still  be  seen  nailed  to  the  doors  of  barns  and  farm- 
houses, in  various  parts  of  this  sage  and  sober-thoughted 
region. 

The  evil,  however,  bore  hard  upon  the  Roost;  partly,  per- 
haps, from  its  having"  in  old  times  been  subject  to  supernatural 
influences,  during  the  sway  of  the  Wizard  Sachem;  but  it  has 
always,  hi  fact,  been  considered  a  fated  mansion.  The  unlucky 
"VVolfert  had  no  rest  day  nor  night.  When  the  weather  was 
quiet  all  over  the  country,  the  wind  would  howl  and  whistle 
round  Iris  roof ;  witches  would  ride  and  whirl  upon  his  weather- 
cocks, and  scream  down  his  chimneys.  His  cows  gave  bloody 
milk,  and  his  horses  broke  bounds,  and  scampered  into  the 
woods.  There  were  not  warning  evil  tongues  to  whisper  that 
Wolfert's  termagant  wife  had  some  tampering  with  the  enemy ; 
and  that  she  even  attended  a  witches'  Sabbath  in  Sleepy  Hol- 
low ;  nay,  a  neighbor,  who  lived  hard  by,  declared  that  he  saw 
her  harnessing  a  rampant  broom-stick,  and  about  to  ride  to  the 
meeting;  though  others  presume  it  was  merely  flourished  in 
the  course  of  one  of  her  curtain  lectures,  to  give  energy  and 
emphasis  to  a  period.  Certain  it  is,  that  Wolfert  Acker  nailed 
a  horse-shoe  to  the  front  door,  during  one  of  her  nocturnal 
excursions,  to  prevent  her  return;  but  as  she  re-entered  the 
house  without  any  difficulty,  it  is  probable  she  was  not  so 
much  of  a  witch  as  she  was  represented.* 

After  the  time  of  Wolfert  Acker,  a  long  interval  elapses, 
about  which  but  little  is  known.  It  is  hoped,  however,  that 
the  antiquarian  researches  so  diligently  making  in  every  part 


*  Historical  Note.— The  annexed  extracts  from  the  early  colonial  records,  re 
late  to  the  irruption  of  witchcraft  into  Westchester  county,  as  mentioned  in  the 
chronicle: 

"July  7,  1670.— Katharine  Harryson,  accused  of  witchcraft  on  complaint  of  Tho- 
mas Hunt  and  Edward  Waters,  in  behalf  of  the  town,  who  pray  that  she  may  be 
driven  from  the  town  of  Westchester.  The  woman  appears  before  the  council. 
....  She  was  a  native  of  England,  and  had  lived  a  year  in  WeathersfieM.  Con- 
necticut, where  she  had  been  tried  for  witchcraft,  found  guilty  by  the  jury,  ac- 
quitted by  the  bench,  and  released  out  of  prison,  upon  condition  she  would  remove. 
Affair  adjourned. 

'•  August  24.— Affair  taken  up  again,  when,  being  heard  at  large,  it  was  referred 
to  the  general  court  of  assize.  Woman  ordered  to  give  security  for  good  behavior," 
etc. 

In  another  place  is  the  following  entry: 

"Order  given  for  Katharine  Harryson,  charged  with  witchcraft,  to  leave  West 
Chester,  a^  the  inhabitants  are  uneasy  at  her  residing  there,  and  she  is  ordered  to 
ko  off.*' 


18  WOLFERTS  BOOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 

of  this  new  country,  may  yet  throw  some  light  upon  what  may 
be  termed  the  Dark  Ages  of  the  Roost. 

The  next  period  at  winch  we  find  this  venerable  and  eventful 
pile  rising  to  importance,  and  resuming  its  old  belligerent  char- 
acter, is  during  the  revolutionary  war.  It  was  at  that  time 
owned  by  Jacob  Van  Tassel,  or  Van  Texel,  as  the  name  was 
originally  spelled,  after  the  place  in  Holland  which  gave  birth 
to  this  heroic  line.  He  was  strong-built,  long-limbed,  and  as 
stout  in  soul  as  in  body ;  a  fit  successor  Jto  the  warrior  sachem 
of  yore,  and,  like  him,  delighting  in  extravagant  enterprises 
and  hardy  deeds  of  arms.  But,  before  I  enter  upon  the  ex- 
ploits of  this  worthy  cock  of  the  Roost,  it  is  fitting  I  should 
throw  some  light  upon  the  state  of  the  mansion,  and  of  the 
surrounding  country,  at  the  time. 

The  situation  of  the  Roost  is  in  the  very  heart  of  what  was 
the  debateable  ground  between  the  American  and  British  lines, 
during  the  war.  The  British  held  possession  of  the  city  of  New 
York,  and  the  island  of  Manhattan  on  which  it  stands.  The 
Americans  drew  up  toward  the  Highlands,  holding  their  head- 
quartf  rs  at  Peekskill.  The  intervening  country,  from  Croton 
River  to  Spiting  Devil  Creek,  was  the  debateable  land,  subject 
to  be  harried  by  friend  and  foe,  like  the  Scottish  borders  of 
yore.  It  is  a  rugged  country,  with  a  line  of  rocky  hills  extend- 
ing through  it,  like  a  back  bone,  sending  ribs  on  either  side ; 
but  among  these  rude  hills  are  beautiful  winding  valleys,  like 
those  watered  by  the  Pocantico  and  the  Neperan.  In  the  fast- 
nesses of  these  hills,  and  along  these  valleys,  exist  a  race  of 
hard-headed,  hard-handed,  stout-hearted  Dutchmen,  descend- 
ants of  the  primitive  Nederlanders.  Most  of  these  were  strong 
whigs  throughout  the  war,  and  have  ever  remained  obstinately 
attached  to  the  soil,  and  neither  to  be  fought  nor  bought  out  of 
their  paternal  acres.  Others  were  tories,  and  adherents  to  the 
old  kingly  rule ;  some  of  whom  took  refuge  within  the  British 
lines,  joined  the  royal  bands  of  refugees,  a  name  odious  to  the 
American  ear,  and  occasionally  returned  to  harass  their  an- 
cient neighbors. 

In  a  little  while,  this  debateable  land  was  overrun  by  preda- 
tory bands  from  either  side;  sacking  hen-roosts,  plundering 
farm-houses,  and  driving  off  cattle.  Hence  arose  those  two 
great  orders  of  border  chivalry,  the  Skinners  and  the  Cow- 
boys, famous  in  the  heroic  annals  of  Westchester  county.  The 
former  fought,  or  rather  marauded,  under  the  American,  the 
latter  under  the  British  banner  \  but  both,  in  the  hurry  of  their 


A   ClIROyiGLE  OF  WOLFERTS  B00S2.  ID 

military  ardor,  were  apt  to  err  on  the  safe  side,  and  rob  friend 
as  well  as  foe.  Neither  of  them  stopped  to  ask  the  politics  of 
horse  or  cow,  which  they  drove  into  captivity ;  nor,  when  they 
wrung  the  neck  of  a  rooster,  did  they  trouble  their  heads  to 
ascertain  whether  he  were  crowing  for  Congress  or  King 
George. 

While  this  marauding  system  prevailed  on  shore,  the  Great 
Tappan  Sea,  which  washes  this  belligerent  region,  was  domi- 
neered over  by  British  frigates  and  other  vessels  of  war,  an- 
chored here  and  there,  to  keep  an  eye  upon  the  river,  and 
maintain  a  communication  between  the  various  military  posts. 
Stout  galleys,  also,  armed  with  eighteen-pounders,  and  navi- 
gated with  sails  and  oars,  cruised  about  like  hawks,  ready  to 
pounce  upon  their  prey. 

All  these  were  eyed  with  bitter  hostility  by  the  Dutch  yeo- 
manry along  shore,  who  were  indignant  at  seeing  their  great 
Mediterranean  ploughed  by  hostile  prows ;  and  would  occasion- 
ally throw  up  a  mud  breast-work  on  a  point  or  promontory, 
mount  an  old  iron  field-piece,  and  fire  away  at  the  enemy, 
though  the  greatest  harm  was  apt  to  happen  to  themselves 
from  the  bursting  of  their  ordnance ;  nay,  there  was  scarce  a 
Dutchman  along  the  river  that  would  hesitate  to  fire  with  his 
long  duck  gun  at  any  British  cruiser  that  came  within  reach, 
as  he  had  been  accustomed  to  fire  at  water-fowl. 

I  have  been  thus  particular  in  my  account  of  the  times  and 
neighborhood,  that  the  reader  might  the  more  readily  com- 
prehend the  surrounding  dangers  in  this  the  Heroic  Age  of  the 
Roost. 

It  was  commanded  at  the  time,  as  I  have  already  observed, 
by  the  stout  Jacob  Van  Jassel.  As  I  wish  to  be  extremely 
accurate  in  this  part  of  my  chronicle,  I  beg  that  this  Jacob 
Van  Tassel  of  the  Roost  may  not  be  confounded  with  another 
Jacob  Van  Tassel,  commonly  known  in  border  story  by  the 
name  of  ' '  Clump-footed  Jake, "  a  noted  tory,  and  one  of  the 
refugee  band  of  Spiting  Devil.  On  the  contrary,  he  of  the 
Roost  was  a  patriot  of  the  first  water,  and,  if  we  may  take  his 
own  wT>rd  for  granted,  a  thorn  in  the  side  of  the  enemy.  As 
the  Roost,  from  its  lonely  situation  on  the  water's  edge,  might 
be  liable  to  attack,  he  took  measures  for  defence.  On  a  row 
of  hooks  above  his  fire-place,  reposed  his  great  piece  of  ord- 
nance, ready  charged  and  primed  for  action.  This  was  a 
duck,  or  rather  goose-gun,  of  unparalleled  longitude,  with 
which  it  was  said  he  could  kill  a  wild  goose,  though  half-way 


9()  W'OLFERFS  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 

across  the  Tappan  Sea.  Indeed,  there  are  as  many  wonders 
told  of  this  renowned  gun,  as  of  the  enchanted  weapons  of  the 
heroes  of  classic  story. 

In  different  parts  of  the  stone  walls  of  his  mansion,  he  had 
made  loop-holes,  through  which  he  might  fire  upon  an  assail- 
ant. His  wife  was  stout-hearted  as  himself,  and  could  load  as 
fast  as  he  could  fire ;  and  then  he  had  an  ancient  and  redoubtable 
sister,  Nochie  Van  Wurmer,  a  match,  as  he  said,  for  the  stout- 
est man  in  the  country.  Thus  garrisoned,  the  little  Roost  was 
fit  to  stand  a  siege,  and  Jacob  Van  Tassel  was  the  man  to  defend 
it  to  the  last  charge  of  powder. 

He  Avas,  as  I  have  already  hinted,  of  pugnacious  propensities ; 
and,  not  content  with  being  a  patriot  at  home,  and  fighting  for 
the  security  of  his  own  fireside,  he  extended  his  thoughts 
abroad,  and  entered  into  a  confederacy  with  certain  of  the 
bold,  hard-riding  lads  of  Tarry  town,  Petticoat  Lane,  and  Sleepy 
Hollow,  who  formed  a  kind  of  Holy  Brotherhood,  scouring  the 
country  to  clear  it  of  Skinner  and  Cow-boy,  and  all  other  bor- 
der vermin.  The  Roost  was  one  of  their  rallying  points.  Did 
a  band  of  marauders  from  Manhattan  island  come  sweeping 
through  the  neighborhood,  and  driving  off  cattle,  the  stout 
Jacob  and  his  compeers  were  soon  clattering  at  their  heels,  and 
fortunate  did  the  rogues  esteem  themselves  if  they  could  but 
get  a  part  of  their  booty  across  the  lines,  or  escape  themselves 
without  a  rough  handling.  Should  the  mosstroopers  succeed 
in  passing  with  their  cavalgada,  with  thundering  tramp  and 
dusty  whirlwind,  across  Kingsbridge,  the  Holy  Brotherhood  of 
the  Roost  would  rein  up  at  that  perilous  pass,  and,  wheeling 
about,  would  indemnify  themselves  by  foraging  the  refugee 
region  of  Morrisania. 

When  at  home  at  the  Roost,  the  stout  Jacob  was  not  idle ; 
but  was  prone  to  carry  on  a  petty  warfare  of  his  own,  for  his 
private  recreation  and  refreshment.  Did  he  ever  chance  to 
espy,  from  his  look-out  place,  a  hostile  ship  or  galley  anchored 
or  becalmed  near  shore,  he  would  take  down  his  long  goose-gun 
from  the  hooks  over  the  fire-place,  sally  out  alone,  and  lurk 
along  shore,  dodging  behind  rocks  and  trees,  and  watching  for 
hours  together,  like  a  veteran  mouser  intent  on  a  rat -hole.  So 
sure  as  a  boat  put  off  for  shore,  and  came  within  shot,  bang ! 
went  the  great  goose-gun;  a  shower  of  slugs  and  buck-shot 
whistled  about  the  ears  of  the  enemy,  and  before  the  boat  could 
reach  the  shore,  Jacob  had  scuttled  up  some  woody  ravine,  and 
left  no  trace  "behind. 


A   CHRONICLE  OF  WOLFERTS  ROOST.  21 

About  this  time,  the  Roost  experienced  a  vast  accession  of 
warlike  importance,  in  being  made  one  of  the  stations  of  the 
water-guard.  Tins  was  a  kind  of  aquatic  corps  of  observation, 
composed  of  long,  sharp,  canoe-shaped  boats,  technically  called 
whale-boats,  that  lay  lightly  on  the  water,  and  could  be  rowed 
with  great  rapidity.  They  were  manned  by  resolute  fellows, 
skilled  at  pulling  an  oar,  or  handling  a  musket.  These  lurked 
about  in  nooks  and  bays,  and  behind  those  long  promontories 
which  run  out  into  the  Tappan  Sea,  keeping  a  look-out,  to  give 
notice  of  the  approach  or  movements  of  hostile  ships.  They 
roved  about  in  pairs;  sometimes  at  night,  with  muffled  oars, 
gliding  like  spectres  about  frigates  and  guard-ships  riding  at 
anchor,  cutting  off  any  boats  that  made  for  shore,  and  keeping 
the  enemy  in  constant  uneasiness.  These  musquito-cruisers 
generally  kept  aloof  by  day,  so  that  their  harboring  places 
might  not  be  discovered,  but  w^ould  pull  quietly  along,  under 
shadow  of  the  shore,  at  night,  to  take  up  their  quarters  at  the 
Roost.  Hither,  at  such  time,  would  also  repair  the  hard-riding 
lads  of  the  hills,  to  hold  secret  councils  of  war  with  the  ' '  ocean 
chivalry,"  and  in  these  nocturnal  meetings  were  concerted 
many  of  those  daring  forays,  by  land  and  water,  that  resounded 
throughout  the  border. 


The  chronicle  here  goes  on  to  recount  divers  wonderful 
stories  of  the  wars  of  the  Roost,  from  which  it  would  seem, 
that  this  little  warrior  nest  carried  the  terror  of  its  arms  into 
every  sea,  from  Spiting  Devil  Creek  to  Antony's  Nose ;  that  it 
even  bearded  the  stout  island  of  Manhattan,  invading  it  at 
night,  penetrating  to  its  centre,  and  burning  down  the  famous 
Delancey  house,  the  conflagration  of  which  makes  such  a  blaze 
in  revolutionary  history.  Nay  more,  in  their  extravagant  dar- 
ing, these  cocks  of  the  Roost  meditated  a  nocturnal  descent 
upon  New  York  itself,  to  swoop  upon  the  British  commanders, 
Howe  and  Clinton,  by  surprise,  bear  them  off  captive,  and  per- 
haps put  a  triumphant  close  to  the  war ! 

All  these  and  many  similar  exploits  are  recorded  by  the 
worthy  Diedrich,  with  his  usual  minuteness  and  enthusiasm, 
whenever  the  deeds  in  arms  of  his  kindred  Dutchmen  are  in 
question;  but  though  most  of  these  warlike  stories  rest  upon 
the  best  of  all  authority,  that  of  the  warriors  themselves,  and 
though  many  of  them  are  still  current  among  the  revolutionary 
patriarchs  of  this  heroic  neighborhood,  yet  I  dare  not  expose 


22  VOLFERTS  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 

them  to  the  incredulity  of  a  tamer  and  less  chivalric  age. 
Suffice  it  to  say,  the  frequent  gatherings  at  the  Roost,  and 
the  hardy  projects  set  on  foot  there,  at  length  drew  on  it  the 
fiery  indignation  of  the  enemy ;  and  this  was  quickened  by  the 
conduct  of  the  stout  Jacob  Van  Tassel ;  with  whose  valorous 
achievements  we  resume  the  course  of  the  chronicle. 


This  doughty  Dutchman,  continues  the  sage  Diedrich 
Knickerbocker,  was  not  content  with  taking  a  share  in  all  the 
magnanimous  enterprises  concocted  at  the  Roost,  but  still  con- 
tinued his  petty  warfare  along  shore.  A  series  of  exploits  at 
length  raised  his  confidence  in  his  prowess  to  such  a  height, 
thai  he  began  to  think  himself  and  his  goose-gun  a  match  for 
any  thing.  Unluckily,  in  the  course  of  one  of  his  prowlings, 
he  descried  a  British  transport  aground,  not  far  from  shore, 
with  her  stern  swung  toward  the  land,  within  point-blank  shot. 
The  temptation  was  too  great  to  be  resisted;  bang!  as  usual, 
went  the  great  goose-gun,  shivering  the  cabin  windows,  and 
driving  all  hands  forward.  Bang!  bang!  the  shots  were 
repeated.  The  reports  brought  several  sharp-shooters  of  the 
neighborhood  to  the  spot ;  before  the  transport  could  bring  a 
gun  to  bear,  or  land  a  boat,  to  take  revenge,  she  was  soundly 
peppered,  and  the  coast  evacuated.  This  was  the  last  of 
Jacob's  triumphs.  He  fared  like  some  heroic  spider,  that  has 
unwittingly  ensnared  a  hornet,  to  his  immortal  glory,  perhaps, 
but  to  the  utter  ruin  of  Ins  web. 

It  was  not  long  after  this,  during  the  absence  of  Jacob  Van 
Tassel  on  one  of  his  forays,  and  when  no  one  was  in  garrison 
but  his  stout-hearted  spouse,  his  redoubtable  sister,  Nochie  Van 
Wurmer,  and  a  strapping  negro  wench,  called  Dinah,  that  an 
armed  vessel  came  to  anchor  off  the  Roost,  and  a  boat  full  of 
men  pulled  to  shore.     The  garrison  flew  to  arms,  that  is  to  say, 
to  mops,  broom-sticks,  shovels,  tongs,  and  all  kinds  of  domestic 
weapons;    for,    unluckily,   the    great  piece  of  ordnance, 
goose-gun,  was  absent  with  its  owner.     Above  all,  a  vigorous 
defence  was  made  with  that  most  potent  of  female  wo 
the  tongue.     Never  did  invaded  hen-roost  make  a  more  v<  • 
ous  outcry.     It  was  all  in  vain.     The  house  was  sackc 
plundered,  fire  was  set  to  each  corner,  and  in  a  few  mon  i 
its  blaze  shed  a  baleful  light  far  over  the  Tappan  Sea.     The 
invaders  then  pounced  upon  the  blooming  La  v.  ey  Va  n  Tass< 
beauty  of  the  Roost,  and  endeavored  to  bear  her  off  to  th< 


A   CHRONICLE  OF  W0LFERT8  ROOST.  23 

But  hero  was  the  real  tug  of  war.  The  mother,  the  aunt,  and 
the  st  apping  negro  wench,  all  flew  to  the  rescue.  The  struggle 
coutiLiueO.  down  to  the  very  water's  edge;  when  a  voice  from 
the  armed  vessel  at  anchor,  ordered  the  spoilers  to  let  go  their 
hold;  they  relinquished  their  prize,  jumped  into  their  boats, 
and  pulled  off,  ari  the  heroine  oi"  the  Roost  escaped  with  G 
k  mere  rumpling  of  the  feathers. 


The  fear  of  tiring  my  readers,  who  may  not  take  such  an 
interest  as  myself  in  these  heroic  themes,  induces  me  to  close 
here  my  extracts  from  tins  precious  chronicle  of  the  venerable 
Diedrich.  Suffice  it  briefly  to  say,  that  shortly  after  the 
rophe  of  the  Roost,  Jacob  Van  Tassel,  in  the  course 
of  one  of  his  forays,  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  British ;  was 
sent  prisoner  to  Xew  York,  and  was  detained  in  captivity  for 
the  greater  part  of  the  war.  In  the  mean  time,  the  Roost 
'ied  a  melancholy  ruin ;  its  stone  walls  and  brick  chim- 
standing,  blackened  by  fire,  and  the  resort  of  bats 
It  was  not  until  the  return  of  peace,  when  this 
neighborhood  once  more  resumed  its  quiet  agricul- 
tural pursuits,  that  the  stout  Jacob  sought  the  scene  of  his  tri- 
umphs and  di  rebuilt  the  Roost,  and  reared  again  on 
high  its  glit                   ■  ther-cocks. 

Does  any  one  want  further  particulars  of  the  fortunes  of 
this  eventful  little  pile?  Let  him  go  to  the  fountain-head,  and 
drink  deep  of  historic  truth.  Reader!  the  stout  Jacob  Van 
Tassel  still  live-,  a  venerable,  gray-headed  patriarch  of  the  rev- 
olution, now  in  his  ninety-fifth  year!  He  sits  by  his  fireside, 
m  the  ancient  city  of  the  Manhattoes,  and  passes  the  long  win- 
ter evenings,  surrounded  by  his  children,  and  grand-children, 
and  great-grand-children,  all  listening  to  his  tales  of  the  border 
and  the  heroic  days  of  the  Roost.  His  great  goose-gun, 
too,  is  still  in  existence,  having  been  preserved  for  many 
years  in  a  hollow  tree,  and  passed  from  hand  to  hand  among 
the  Dutch  burghers,  as  a  precious  relique  of  the  revolution. 
It  is  now  actually  in  possession  of  a  contemporary  of  the  stout 
Jacob,  one  almost  his  equal  in  years,  who  treasures  it  up  at  his 
house  in  the  Boworie  of  Xew- Amsterdam,  hard  by  the  ancient 
rural  retreat  of  the  chivalric  Peter  Stuyvesant.  I  am  not 
without  hopes  of  one  day  seeing  this  formidable  piece  of 
ordinance  restored  to  its  proper  station  in  the  arsenal  of  the 

Roost, 


24  WOLFERTS  ROOST  AND  to/SOELLANUCti. 

Before  closing  this  historic  cU  cument,  I  cannot  but  advert  to 
certain  notions  and  traditions  concerning  the  venerable  pile  in 
question.  Old-time  edifices  are  apt  to  gather  odd  fancies  and 
superstitions  about  them,  as  they  do  moss  and  weather-stains ; 
and  this  is  in  a  neighborhood  a  little  given  to  old-fashioned 
notions,  and  who  look  upon  the  Roost  as  somewhat  of  a  fated 
mansion.  A  lonely,  rambling,  down-hill  lane  leads  to  it,  over- 
hung with  trees,  with  a  wild  brook  dashing  along,  and  crossing 
and  re-crossing  it.  This  lane  I  found  some  of  the  good  people 
of  the  neighborhood  shy  of  treading  at  night ;  why,  I  could  not 
for  a  long  time  ascertain ;  until  I  learned  that  one  or  two  of  the 
rovers  of  the  Tappan  Sea,  shot  by  the  stout  Jacob  during  the 
war,  had  been  buried  hereabout,  in  unconsecrated  ground. 

Another  local  superstition  is  of  a  less  gloomy  kind,  and  one 
which  I  confess  I  am  somewhat  disposed  to  cherish.  The  Tap- 
pan  Sea,  in  front  of  the  Roost,  is  about  three  miles  wide,  bor- 
dered by  a  lofty  line  of  waving  and  rocky  hills.  Often,  in  the 
still  twilight  of  a  summer  evening,  when  the  sea  is  like  glass, 
with  the  opposite  hills  throwing  their  purple  shadows  half 
across  it,  a  low  sound  is  heard,  as  of  the  steady,  vigorous  pull 
of  oars,  far  out  in  the  middle  of  the  stream,  though  not  a  boat 
is  to  be  descried.  This  I  should  have  been  apt  to  ascribe  to 
some  boat  rowed  along  under  the  shadows  of  the  western 
shore,  for  sounds  are  conveyed  to  a  great  distance  by  water,  at 
such  quiet  hours,  and  I  can  distinctly  hear  the  baying  of  the 
watch-dogs  at  night,  from  the  farms  on  the  sides  of  the  opposite 
mountains.  The  ancient  traditionists  of  the  neighborhood, 
however,  religiously  ascribed  these  sounds  to  a  judgment  upon 
one  Rumbout  Van  Dam,  of  Spiting  Devil,  who  danced  and 
drank  late  one  Saturday  night,  at  a  Dutch  quilting  frolic,  at 
Kakiat,  and  set  off  alone  for  home  in  his  boat,  on  the  verge  of 
Sunday  morning ;  swearing  he  would  not  land  till  he  reached 
Spiting  Devil,  if  it  took  him  a  month  of  Sundays.  He  was 
never  seen  afterward,  but  is  often  heard  plying  his  oars  across 
the  Tappan  Sea,  a  Flying  Dutchman  on  a  small  scale,  suited  to 
the  size  of  his  cruising-ground ;  being  doomed  to  ply  between 
Kakiat  and  Spiting  Devil  till  the  day  of  judgment,  but  never 
to  reach  the  land. 

There  is  one  room  in  the  mansion  which  almost  overhangs 
the  river,  and  is  reputed  to  be  haunted  by  the  ghost  of  a 
young  lady  who  died  of  love  and  green  apples.  I  have  been 
awakened  at  night  by  the  sound  of  oars  and  the  tinkling  of 
guitars  beneath  the  window ;  ansLseeing  a  boat  loitering  in  the 


SLEEPY  HOLLOW  26 

moonlight,  have  been  tempted  to  believe  it  the  Flying  Dutch- 
man of  Spiting  Devil,  and  to  try  whether  a  silver  bullet  might 
not  put  an  end  to  his  unhappy  cruisings ;  but,  happening  to 
recollect  that  there  was  a  living  young  lady  in  the  haunted 
room,  who  might  be  terrified  by  the  report  of  fire-arms,  I  have 
refrained  from  pulling  trigger. 

As  to  the  enchanted  fountain,  said  to  have  been  gifted  by  the 
wizard  sachem  with  supernatural  powers,  it  still  wells  up  at  the 
foot  of  the  bank,  on  the  margin  of  the  river,  and  goes  by  the 
name  of  the  Indian  spring;  but  I  have  my  doubts  as  to  its 
rejuvenating  powers,  tor  though  I  have  drank  oft  and  copi- 
ously of  it,  I  cannot  boast  that  I  find  myself  growing  younger. 

Geoffrey  Crayon. 


SLEEPY  HOLLOW. 

BY  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT. 

Having  pitched  my  tent,  probably  for  the  remainder  of  my 
days,  in  the  neighborhood  of  Sleepy  Hollow,  I  am  tempted  to 
give  some  few  particulars  concerning  that  spell-bound  region ; 
especially  as  it  has  risen  to  historic  importance  under  the  pen 
of  my  revered  friend  and  master,  the  sage  historian  of  the  New 
Netherlands.  Beside,  I  find  die  very  existence  of  the  place  has 
been  held  in  question  by  many;  who,  judgirg  from  its  odd 
name  and  from  the  odd  stories  current  among  the  vulgar  con- 
cerning it.  have  rashly  deemed  the  whole  to  be  a  fanciful  crea- 
tion, like  the  Lubber  Land  of  mariners.  I  must  confess  there 
is  some  apparent  cause  for  doubt,  in  consequence  of  the  color- 
ing given  by  the  worthy  Diedrich  to  his  descriptions  of  the 
Hollow;  who,  in  this  instance,  has  departed  a  little  from  his 
usually  sober  if  not  severe  style;  beguiled,  very  probably,  by 
his  predilection  for  the  haunts  of  his  youth,  and  by  a  certain 
lurking  taint  of  romance  whenever  any  thing  connected  with 
the  Dutch  was  to  be  described.  I  shall  endeavor  to  make  up 
for  this  amiable  error  on  the  part  of  my  venerable  and  vener- 
ated friend  by  presenting  the  reader  with  a  more  precise  and 
statistical  account  of  the  Hollow;  though  I  am  not  sure  that  I 
shall  not  be  prone  to  laps-  in  the  end  into  the  very  error  I  am 
speaking  of,  so  potent  is  the  witchery  of  the  theme. 

I  believe  it  was  the  very  peculiarity  of  its  name  and  the  idea 


WOLbtiRT  ./>    M1&0ELLANI1 

of  something  mystic  and  dreamy  connected  with  it  that  first 
led  me  in  my  boyish  ramblings  into  Sleepy  Hollow.  The 
character  of  the  valley  seemed  to  answer  to  the  name;  the 
slumber  of  past  ages  apparently  reigned  over  it;  it  had  not 
awakened  to  the  stir  of  improvement  which  had  put  all  the  rest 
of  the  world  in  a  bustle.  Here  reigned  good,  old  long-forgotten 
fashions;  the  men  were  in  home-spun  garbs,  evidently  the 
product  of  their  own  farms  and  the  manufacture  of  their  own 
wives ;  the  women  were  in  primitive  short  gowns  and  petticoats, 
with  the  venerable  sun-bonnets  of  Holland  origin.  The  lower 
part  of  the  valley  was  cut  up  into  small  farms,  each  consisting 
of  a  little  meadow  and  corn-field;  an  orchard  of  sprawling, 
marled  apple-trees,  and  a  garden,  where  the  rose,  the  marigold, 
.md  the  hollyhock  were  permitted  to  skirt  the  domains  of  the 
capacious  cabbage,  the  aspiring  pea,  and  the  portly  pumpkin. 
Each  had  its  prolific  little  mansion  teeming  with  children ;  with 
an  old  hat  nailed  against  the  wall  for  the  housekeeping  wren; 
a  northerly  hen,  under  a  coop  on  the  grass-plot,  clucking  to 
keep  around  her  a  brood  of  vagrant  chickens ;  a  cool,  stone 
we'll,  with  the  moss-covered  bucket  suspended  to  the  long  bal- 
aneing-pole,  according  to  the  antediluvian  idea  of  hydraulics ; 
and  its  spinning-wheel  humming  within  doors,  the  patriarchal 
music  of  home  manufacture. 

The  Hollow  at  that  time  was  inhabited  by  families  which 
had  existed  there  from  the  earliest  times,  and  which,  by  fre- 
quent intermarriage,  had  become  so  interwoven,  as  to  make  a 
kind  of  natural  commonwealth.  As  the  families  had  grown 
larger  the  farms  had  grown  smaller;  every  new  generation 
requiring  a  new  subdivision,  and  few  thinking  of  swarming 
from  the  native  hive.  In  this  way  that  happy  golden  mean 
had  been  produced,  so  much  extolled  by  the  poets,  in  which 
there  was  no  gold  and  very  little  silver.  One  thing  which 
doubtless  contributed  to  keep  up  this  amiable  mean  was  a 
general  repugnance  to  sordid  labor.  The  sage  inhabitants  of 
Sleepy  Hollow  had  read  in  their  Bible,  which  was  the  only 
book  they  studied,  that  labor  was  originally  inflicted  upon  man 
as  a  punishment  of  sin;  they  regarded  it,  therefore,  with  pious 
abhorrence,  and  never  humiliated  themselves  to  it  but  in  cases 
of  extremity.  There  seemed,  in  fart,  to  be  a  league  and 
covenant  against  it  throughout  the  Hollow  as  against  a  common 
enemy.  "Was  any  one  compelled  by  dire  necessity  to  repair 
his  house,  mend  his  fences,  build  a  barn,  or  get  in  a  harvest 
he  considered  it  a  great  evil  that  entitled  him  to  call  in  the 


SLEEPY  HOLLOW  27 

assistance  or  bis  friends.  He  accordingly  proclaimed  a  '  bee 
or  rustic  gathering,  whereupon  all  his  neighbors  hurried  to  his 
aid  like  faithful  allies;  attacked  the  task  with  the  desperate 
energy  of  lazy  men  eager  to  overcome  a  job ;  and,  when  it  was 
accompHshed,  fell  to  eating  and  drinking,  fiddling  and  danc 
iiig  for  very  joy  that  so  great  an  amount  of  labor  had  been  van- 
quished with  so  little  sweating  of  the  brow. 

Yet,  let  it  not  be  supposed  that  this  worthy  community  was 
without  its  periods  of  arduous  activity.  Let  but  a  flock  oi 
wild  pigeons  fly  across  the  valley  and  all  Sleepy  Hollow  was 
wide  awake  in  an  instant.  The  pigeon  season  had  arrived! 
Every  gun  and  net  was  forthwith  in  requisition.  The  flail  was 
thrown  down  on  the  barn  floor;  the  spade  rusted  in  the  garden  ,* 
the  plough  stood  idle  in  the  furrow ;  every  one  was  to  the  hill- 
side and  stubble-field  at  daybreak  to  shoot  or  entrap  the 
pigeons  in  their  periodical  migrations. 

So,  likewise,  let  but  the  word  be  given  that  the  shad  were 
ascending  the  Hudson,  and  the  worthies  of  the  Hollow  were«to 
be  seen  launched  in  boats  upon  the  river  setting  great  stakes, 
and  stretching  their  nets  like  gigantic  spider-webs  half  across 
the  stream  to  the  great  annoyance  of  navigators.  Such  are  the 
wise  provisions  of  Nature,  by  which  she  equalizes  rural  affairs. 
A  laggard  at  the  plough  is  often  extremely  industrious  with 
the  fowling-piece  and  fishing-net ;  and,  whenever  a  man  is  an 
indifferent  farmer,  he  is  apt  to  be  a  first-rate  sportsman.  For 
catching  shad  and  wild  pigeons  there  were  none  throughout 
the  country  to  compare  with  the  lads  of  Sleepy  Hollow. 

As  I  have  observed,  it  was  the  dreamy  nature  of  the  name 
that  first  beguiled  me  in  the  holiday  rovings  of  boyhood  into 
this  sequestered  region.  I  shunned,  however,  the  populous 
parts  of  the  Hollow,  and  sought  its  retired  haunts  far  in  the 
foldings  of  the  hills,  where  the  Pocantico  "winds  its  wizard 
stream"  sometimes  silently  and  darkly  through  solemn  wood- 
lands ;  sometimes  sparkling  betweeen  grassy  borders  in  fresh 
green  meadows ;  sometimes  stealing  along  the  feet  of  rugged 
heights  under  the  balancing  sprays  of  beech  and  chestnut 
trees.  A  thousand  crystal  springs,  with  which  this  neighbor- 
hood abounds,  sent  down  from  the  hill-sides  their  whimpering 
rills,  as  if  to  pay  tribute  to  the  Pocantico.  In  this  stream  I 
first  essayed  my  unskilful  hand  at  angling.  I  loved  to  loiter 
along  it  with  rod  in  hand,  watching  my  float  as  it  whirled 
amid  the  eddies  or  drifted  into  dark  holes  under  twisted  roots 
and  sunken  logs,  where  the  largest  fish  arc;  apt   to  lurk.     T 


28  WOLFERTS  BOOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 

delighted  to  follow  it  into  the  brown  recesses  of  the  woods ;  to 
throw  by  my  fishing-gear  and  sit  upon  rocks  beneath  towering 
oaks  and  clambering  grape-vines;  bathe  my  feet  in  the  cool 
current,  and  listen  to  the  summer  breeze  playing  among  the 
tree-tops.  My  boyish  fancy  clothed  all  nature  around  me  with 
ideal  charms,  and  peopled  it  with  the  fairy  beings  I  had  read 
of  in  poetry  and  fable.  Here  it  was  I  gave  full  scope  to  my 
incipient  habit  of  day-dreaming,  and  to  a  certain  propensity, 
to  weave  up  and  tint  sober  realities  with  my  own  whims  and 
imaginings,  which  has  sometimes  made  life  a  little  too  much 
like  an  Arabian  tale  to  me,  and  this  ' '  working-day  world  " 
rather  like  a  region  of  romance. 

The  great  gathering-place  of  Sleepy  Hollow  in  those  days  was 
the  church.  It  stood  outside  of  the  Hollow,  near  the  great 
highway,  on  a  green  bank  shaded  by  trees,  with  the  Pocantico 
sweepmg  round  it  and  emptying  itself  into  a  spacious  null- 
pond.  At  that  time  the  Sleepy  Hollow  church  was  the  only 
place  of  worship  for  a  wide  neighborhood.  It  was  a  venerable 
edifice,  partly  of  stone  and  partly  of  brick,  the  latter  having 
been  brought  from  Holland  in  the  early  days  of  the  province, 
before  the  arts  in  the  New  Netherlands  could  aspire  to  such  a 
fabrication.  On  a  stone  above  the  porch  were  inscribed  the 
names  of  the  founders,  Frederick  Filipsen,  a  mighty  patroon  of 
the  olden  time,  who  reigned  over  a  wide  extent  of  this  neigh- 
borhood and  held  his  seat  of  power  at  Yonkers ;  and  his  wife, 
Katrina  Van  Courtlandt,  of  the  no  less  potent  line  of  the  Van 
Courtlandts  of"  Croton,  who  lorded  it  over  a  great  .part  of  the 
Highlands. 

The  capacious  pulpit,  with  its  wide-spreading  sounding- 
board,  were  likewise  early  importations  from  Holland ;  as  also 
the  communion-table,  of  massive  form  and  curious  fabric. 
The  same  might  be  said  of  a  weather-cock  perched  on  top  of 
the  belfry,  and  which  was  considered  orthodox  in  all  windy 
matters,  until  a  small  pragmatical  rival  was  set  up  on  the  other 
end  of  the  church  above  the  chancel.  This  latter  bore,  and 
still  bears,  the  initials  of  Frederick  Filipsen,  and  assumed  great 
airs  in  consequence.  The  usual  contradiction  ensued  that 
always  exists  among  church  weather-cocks,  which  can  never 
be  brought  to  agree  as  to  the  point  from  which  the  wind  blows, 
having  doubtless  acquired,  from  their  position,  the  Christian 
propensity  to  schism  and  controversy. 

Behind,  the  church,  and  sloping  up  a  gentle  acclivity,  was  its 
capacious  burying-ground,  in  which  slept  the  earliest  fathers 


SLEEPY  HOLLOW.  29 

of  this  rural  neighborhood.  Here  were  tombstones  of  the 
rudest  sculpture;  on  which  were  inscribed,  in  Dutch,  the 
names  and  virtues  of  many  of  the  first  settlers,  with  their 
portraitures  curiously  carved  in  similitude  of  cherubs.  Long 
rows  of  grave-stones,  side  by  side,  of  similar  names,  but  various 
elates,  showed  that  generation  after  generation  of  the  same 
families  had  followed  each  other  and  been  garnered  together  in 
this  last  gathering- place  of  kindred. 

Let  me  speak  of  this  quiet  grave-yard  with  all  due  rever- 
ence, for  I  owe  it  amends  for  the  heedlessness  of  my  boyish 
days.  I  blush  to  acknowledge  the  thoughtless  frolic  with 
winch,  in  company  with  other  whipsters,  I  have  sported  within 
its  sacred  bounds  during  the  intervals  of  worship;  chasing 
butterflies,  plucking  wild  flowers,  or  vying  with  each  other 
who  could  leap  over  the  tallest  tomb-stones,  until  checked  by 
the  stern  voice  of  the  sexton. 

The  congregation  was,  in  those  days,  of  a  really  rural  char- 
acter. City  fashions  were  as  yet  unknown,  or  unregarded,  by 
the  country  people  of  the  neighborhood.  Steam-boats  had  not 
as  yet  confounded  town  with  country.  A  weekly  market-boat 
from  Tarrytown,  the  "  Farmers'  Daughter,"  navigated  by  the 
worthy  Gabriel  •Kequa,  was  the  only  communication  between 
all  these  parts  and  the  metropolis.  A  rustic  belle  in  those  days 
considered  a  visit  to  the  city  in  much  the  same  light  as  one  of 
our  modern  fashionable  ladies  regards  a  visit  to  Europe;  an 
event  that  may  possibly  take  place  once  in  the  course  of  a  life- 
time, but  to  be  hoped  for,  rather  than  expected.  Hence  the 
array  of  the  congregation  was  chiefly  after  the  primitive  fash- 
ions existing  in  Sleepy  Hollow;  or  if,  by  chance,  there  was  a 
departure  from  the  Dutch  sun-bonnet,  or  the  apparition  of  a 
bright  gown  of  flowered  calico,  it  caused  quite  a  sensation 
throughout  the  church.  As  the  dominie  generally  preached 
by  the  hour,  a  bucket  of  water  was  providently  placed  on  a 
bench  near  the  door,  in  summer,  with  a  tin  cup  beside  it,  for 
the  solace  of  those  who  might  be  athirst,  either  from  the  heat 
of  the  weather,  or  the  drouth  of  lb*'  sermon. 

Around  the  pulpit,  and  behind  the  communion-table,  sat  the 
elders  of  the  church,  reverend,  gray-headed,  leathern-visaged 
men,  whom  I  regarded  with  awe,  as  so  many  apostles.  They 
were  stern  in  their  sanctity,  kept  a  vigilant  eye  upon  my 
giggling  companions  and  myself,  and  shook  a  rebuking  finger 
at  any  boyish  device  to  relieve  the  tediousness  of  compulsory 
devotion.    Vain,  however,  were  all  their  efforts  at  vigilance. 


30  WOLFEBlnS  ROOST  ANT)  MIS0ELLAME8. 

Scarcely  had  the  preacher  held  forth  for  half  an  hour,  on  one 
of  his  interminable  sermons,  than  it  seemed  as  if  the  drowsy 
influence  of  Sleepy  Hollow  breathed  into  the  place ;  one  by  one 
the  congregation  sank  into  slumber;  the  sanctified  elders 
leaned  back  in  their  pews,  spreading  their  handkerchiefs  over 
their  faces,  as  if  to  keep  off  the  flies ;  while  the  locusts  in  the 
neighboring  trees  would  spin  out  their  sultry  summer  notes,  as 
if  in  imitation  of  the  sleep-provoking  tones  of  the  dominie. 

I  have  thus  endeavored  to  give  an  idea  of  Sleepy  Hollow  and 
its  church,  as  I  recollect  them  to  have  been  in  the  days  of  my 
boyhood.  It  was  in  my  stripling  days,  when  a  few  years  had 
passed  over  my  head,  that  I  revisited  them,  in  company  with 
the  venerable  Diedrich.  I  shall  never  forget  the  antiquarian 
reverence  with  which  that  sage  and  excellent  man  contem- 
plated the  church.  It  seemed  as  if  all  his  pious  enthusiasm  for 
the  ancient  Dutch  dynasty  swelled  within  his  bosom  at  the 
sight.  The  tears  stood  in  his  eyes,  as  he  regarded  the  pulpit 
and  the  communion- table;  even  the  very  bricks  that  had  come 
from  the  mother  country,  seemed  to  touch  a  filial  chord  within 
Ins  bosom.  He  almost  bowed  in  deference  to  the  stone  above 
the  porch,  containing  the  names  of  Frederick  Filipsen  and 
Katrina  Van  Courtlandt,  regarding  it  as  the  linking  together 
of  those  patronymic  names,  once  so  famous  along  the  banks  of 
the  Hudson;  or  rather  as  a  key-stone,  binding  that  mighty 
Dutch  family  connexion  of  yore,  one  foot  of  which  rested  on 
Yonkers,  and  the  other  on  the  Croton.  Nor  did  he  forbear 
to  notice  with  admiration,  the  windy  contest  which  had  been 
carried  on,  since  time  immemorial,  and  with  real  Dutch  per- 
severance, between  the  two  weather-cocks;  though  I  could 
easily  perceive  he  coincided  with  the  one  which  had  come  from 
Holland. 

Together  we  paced  the  ample  church-yard.  With  deep 
veneration  would  he  turn  down  the  weeds  and  brambles  that 
obscured  the  modest  brown  grave-stones,  half  sunk  in  earth,  on 
which  were  recorded,  in  Dutch,  the  names  of  the  patriarchs  of 
ancient  days,  the  Ackers,  the  Van  Tassels,  and  the  Van  Warts. 
As  we  sat  on  one  of  the  tomb-stones,  he  recounted  to  me  the 
exploits  of  many  of  these  worthies ;  and  my  heart  smote  me, 
when  I  heard  of  their  great  doings  in  days  of  yore,  to  think 
how  heedlessly  I  had  once  sported  over  their  graves. 

From  the  church,  the  venerable  Diedrich  proceeded  in  his 
researches  up  the  Hollow.  The  genius  of  the  place  seemed 
to  hail  its  future  historian.     All  nature  was  alive  with  eratula* 


SLEEP  1    HOLLOW.  31 

tion.  The  quail  whistled  a  greeting  from  the  corn-field;  the 
robin  carolled  a  song  of  praise  from  the  orchard;  the  loqua- 
cious catbird  flew  from  bush  to  bush,  with  restless  wing,  pro- 
:ig  his  approach  in  every  variety  of  note,  and  anon 
would  whisk  about,  and  perk  inquisitively  into  his  face,  as  if 
to  get  a  knowledge  of  his  physiognomy ;  the  wood-pecker,  also, 
tapped  a  tattoo  on  the  hollow  apple-tree,  and  then  p. 
knowingly  round  the  trunk,  to  see  how  the  great  Die 
relished  his  salutation;  while  the  ground-squirrel  scampered 
along  the  fence,  and  occasionally  whisked  his  tail  over  Ins  head, 
by  way  of  a  huzza ! 

The  worthy  Diedrich  pursued  his  researches  in  the  valley 
with  characteristic  devotion ;  entering  familiarly  into  the  vari- 
ous cottages,  and  gossiping  with  the  simple  folk,  in  the  style 
of  their  own  simplicity.  I  confess  my  heart  yearned  with 
admiration,  to  see  so  great  a  man,  in  his  eager  quest  after 
knowledge,  humbly  demeaning  himself  to  curry  favor  with 
the  humblest ;  sitting  patiently  on  a  three-legged  stool,  patting 
the  children,  and  taking  a  purring  grimalkin  on  his  lap,  while 
he  conciliated  the  good-will  of  the  old  Dutch  housewife,  and 
drew  from  her  long  ghost  stories,  spun  out  to  the  humming 
accompaniment  of  her  wheel. 

His  greatest  treasure  of  historic  lore,  however,  was  dis- 
covered in  an  old  goblin-looking  mill,  situated  among  rocks  and 
waterfalls,  with  clanking  wheels,  and  rushing  streams,  and  all 
kinds  of  uncouth  noises.  A  horse-shoe,  nailed  to  the  door  to 
keep  off  witches  and  evil  spirits,  showed  that  this  mill  was 
subject  to  awful  visitations.  As  we  approached  it,  an  old  negro 
thrust  his  head,  all  dabbled  with  flour,  out  of  a  hole  above 
the  water-wheel,  and  grinned,  and  rolled  his  eyes,  and  looked 
like  the  very  hobgoblin  of  the  place.  The  illustrious  Diedrich 
fixed  upon  him,  at  once,  as  the  very  one  to  give  him  that  in- 
valuable kind  of  information  never  to  be  acquired  from  books, 
He  beckoned  him  from  his  nest,  sat  with  him  by  the  hour  on 
a  broken  mill  stone,  by  the  side  of  the  waterfall,  heed! 
the  noise  of  the  water,  and  the  clatter  of  the  mill ;  and  I  verily 
believe  it  was  to  his  conference  with  this  African  sage,  and  the 
precious  revelations  of  the  good  dame  of  the  spinning-wheel, 
that  we  are  indebted  for  the  surprising  though  true  history  of 
Ichabod  Crane  and  the  headless  horseman,  which  has 
astounded  and  edified  the  world. 

But  I  have  said  enough  of  the  good  old  times  of  my  youthful 
days ;  let  me  speak  of  the  Hollow  as  I  found  it,  after  an  ab- 


jO  WOLFERTS  BOOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 

sence  of  many  years,  when  it  was  kindly  given  me  once  more 
to  revisit  the  haunts  of  my  boyhood.  It  was  a  genial  day,  as  I 
approached  that  fated  region.  The  warm  sunshine  was  tern 
pered  by  a  slight  haze,  so  as  to  give  a  dreamy  effect  to  the 
landscape.  Not  a  breath  of  air  shook  the  foliage.  The  broad 
Tappan  Sea  was  without  a  ripple,  and  the  sloops,  with  droop- 
ing sails,  slept  on  its  grassy  bosom.  Columns  of  smoke,  from 
burning  brush-wood,  rose  lazily  from  the  folds  of  the  hills,  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  river,  and  slowly  expanded  in  mid-air. 
The  distant  lowing  of  a  cow,  or  the  noontide  crowing  of  a  cock, 
coming  faintly  to  the  ear,  seemed  to  illustrate,  rather  than  dis- 
turb, the  drowsy  quiet  of  the  scene. 

I  entered  the  hollow  with  a  beating  heart.  Contrary  to  my 
apprehensions,  I  found  it  but  little  changed.  The  march  of 
intellect,  which  had  made  such  rapid  strides  along  every  river 
and  highway,  had  not  yet,  apparently,  turned  down  into  this 
favored  valley.  Perhaps  the  wizard  spell  of  ancient  days 
still  reigned  over  the  place,  binding  up  the  faculties  of  the  in- 
habitants in  happy  contentment  with  things  as  they  had  been 
handed  down  to  them  from  yore.  There  were  the  same  little 
farms  and  farmhouses,  with  their  old  hats  for  the  housekeep 
ing  wren;  their  stone  wells,  moss-covered  buckets,  and  long 
balancing  poles.  There  were  the  same  little  rills,  whimpering 
down  to  pay  their  tributes  to  the  Pocantico;  while  that  wizard 
stream  still  kept  on  its  course,  as  of  old,  through  solemn  wood- 
lands and  fresh  green  meadows:  nor  were  there  wanting  joy- 
ous holiday  boys  to  loiter  along  its  banks,  as  I  have  done ;  throw 
their  pin-hooks  in  the  stream,  or  launch  their  mimic  barks.  I 
watched  them  with  a  kind  of  melancholy  pleasure,  wondering 
whether  they  were  under  the  same  spell  of  the  fancy  that  once 
rendered  this  valley  a  fairy  land  to  me.  Alas!  alas!  to  me 
every  thing  now  stood  revealed  in  its  simple  reality.  The 
echoes  no  longer  answered  with  wizard  tongues ;  the  dream  of 
youth  was  at  an  end ;  the  spell  of  Sleepy  Hollow  was  broken ! 

I  sought  the  ancient  church  on  the  following  Sunday.  There 
it  stood,  on  its  green  bank,  among  the  trees;  the  Pocantico 
swept  by  it  in  a  deep  dark  stream,  where  I  had  so  often 
angled ;  there  exanded  the  mill-pond,  as  of  old,  with  the  cows 
under  the  willows  on  its  margin,  knee-deep  in  water,  chewing 
the  cud,  and  lashing  the  flies  from  their  sides  with  their  tails. 
The  hand  of  improvement,  however,  had  been  busy  with  the 
venerable  pile.  The  pulpit,  fabricated  in  Holland,  had  been 
superseded  by  one  of  modern  construction,  and  the  front  of  the 


SLEEPY  HOLLOW  33 

semi-Gothic  edifice  was  decorated  by  a  semi-Grecian  portico. 
Fortunately,  the  two  weather-cocks  remained  undisturbed  on 
their  perches  at  each  end  of  the  church,  and  still  kept  up  a 
diametrical  opposition  to  each  other  on  all  points  of  windy  doc- 
trine. 

On  entering  the  church  the  chancres  of  time  continued  to  be 
apparent.  The  elders  round  the  pulpit  were  men  whom  I  had 
left  in  the  gamesome  frolic  of  their  youth,  but  who  had  suc- 
ceeded to  the  sanctity  of  station  of  which  they  once  had  stood 
so  much  in  awe.  What  most  struck  my  eye  was  the  change  in 
the  female  part  of  the  congregation.  Instead  of  the  primitive 
garbs  of  homespun  manufacture  and  antique  Dutch  fashion, 
I  beheld  French  sleeves,  French  capes,  and  French  collars,  and 
a  fearful-fluttering  of  French  ribbands. 

When  the  service  was  ended  I  sought  the  church-yard,  in 
which  I  had  sported  in  my  unthinking  days  of  boyhood. 
Several  of  the  modest  brown  stones,  on  which  were  recorded  in 
Dutch  the  names  and  virtues  of  the  patriarchs,  had  disap- 
peared, and  had  been  succeeded  by  others  of  white  marble, 
with  urns  and  wreaths,  and  scraps  of  English  tomb-stone 
poetry,  marking  the  intrusion  of  taste  and  literature  and  the 
English  language  in  this  once  unsophisticated  Dutch  neighbor- 
hood. 

As  I  was  stumbling  about  among  these  silent  yet  eloquent  me- 
morials of  the  dead,  I  came  upon  names  familiar  to  me ;  of  those 
who  had  paid  the  debt  of  nature  during  the  long  interval  of  my 
absence.  Some,  I  remembered  my  companions  in  boyhood, 
who  had  sported  with  me  on  the  very  sod  under  which  they 
were  now  mouldering:  others  who  in  those  days  had  been  the 
flower  of  the  yeomanry,  figuring  in  Sunday  finery  on  the 
church  green:  others,  the  white-haired  elders  of  the  sanctu- 
ary, once  arrayed  in  awful  sanctity  around  the  pulpit,  and 
ever  ready  to  rebuke  the  ill-timed  mirth  of  the  wanton  strip- 
ling who.  now  a  man,  sobered  by  years  and  schooled  by 
vicissitudes,  looked  down  pensively  upon  their  graves.  "Our 
fathers."  thought  I,  "where  are  they!— and  the  prophets,  can 
they  five  for  ever!" 

I  was  disturbed  in  iny  meditations  by  the  noise  of  a  troop  of 
idle  urchins,  who  came  gambolling  about  the  place  where  I  had 
so  often  gambolled.  They  were  checked,  as  I  and  my  play- 
mates had  often  been,  by  the  voice  of  tl  1  i\.  a  man 
in  years  and  demeanor.  I  looked  wistfully  in  his  face;  had 
I  met  him  any  where  else.  I  should  probably  hai  I  him 


3-[  WOLFEBTS  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES, 

by  without  remark;  but  here  I  was  alive  to  the  traces  of  for- 
mer times,  and  detected  in  the  demure  features  of  this  guar- 
dian of  the  sanctuary  the  lurking  lineaments  of  one  of  the  very 
playmates  I  have  alluded  to.     We  renewed  our  acquaintance. 

it  down  beside  me,  on  one  of  the  tomb-stones  over  which 
we  had  leaped  in  our  juvenile  sports,  and  we  talked  together 
about  our  boyish  days,  and  held  edifying  discourse  on  the  in- 
Bl  ability  of  all  sublunary  things,  as  instanced  in  the  scene  around 

He  was  rich  in  historic  lore,  as  to  the  events  of  the  last 
thirty  years  and  the  circumference  of  thirty  miles,  and  from 
him  I  learned  the  appalling  revolution  that  was  taking  place 
throughout  the  neighborhood.  All  this  I  clearly  perceived  he 
attributed  to  the  boasted  march  of  intellect,  or  rather  to  the 
all-pervading  influence  of  steam.  He  bewailed  the  times  when 
the  only  communication  with  town  was  by  the  weekly  market- 
boat,  the  "Farmers'  Daughter,"  which,  under  the  pilotage  of 
the  worthy  Gabriel  Requa,  braved  the  perils  of  the  Tappan  Sea. 
Alas!  Gabriel  and  the  "  Farmer's  Daughter"  slept  in  peace. 
Two  steamboats  now  splashed  and  paddled  up  daily  to  the  little 
rural  port  of  Tarry  town.  The  spirit  of  speculation  and  improve- 
ment had  seized  even  upon  that  once  quiet  and  unambitious  lit- 
tle dorp.  The  whole  neighborhood  was  laid  out  into  town  lots. 
Instead  of  the  little  tavern  below  the  hill,  where  the  farmers 
used  to  loiter  on  market  days  and  indulge  in  cider  and  ginger- 
bread, an  ambitious  hotel,  with  cupola  and  verandas,  now 
crested  the  summit,  among  churches  built  in  the  Grecian  and 
Gothic  styles,  showing  the  great  increase  of  piety  and  polite 
taste  in  the  neighborhood.  As  to  Dut<  h  dresses  and  sun-bon- 
nets, they  were  no  longer  tolerated,  or  even  thought  of;  not 
a  farmer's  daughter  but  now  went  to  town  for  the  fashions ; 
nay,  a  city  milliner  had  recently  set  up  in  the  village,  who 
threatened  to  reform  the  heads  of  the  whole  neighborhood. 
I  I  had  heard  enough !  I  thanked  my  old  playmate  for  his  in- 
telligence, and  departed  from  the  Sleepy  Hollow  church  with 
the  sad  conviction  that  I  had  beheld  the  last  lingerings  of  the 
good  old  Dutch  times  in  this  once  favored  region.  If  any 
thing  were  wanting  to  confirm  this  impression,  it  would  be  the 
intelligence  which  has  just  reached  me,  that  a  bank  is  about 
to  be  established  in  the  aspiring  little  port  just  mentioned. 
The  fate  of  the  neighborhood  is  therefore  sealed.  I  see  no 
hope  of  averting  it.  The  golden  mean  is  at  an  end.  The  coun- 
try is  suddenly  to  be  deluged  with  wealth.  The  late  simple 
farmers  are  to  become  bank  directors  and  drink  claret  and 


TUB  BIRDS   OF  SPRING. 

champagne;  and  their  wives  and  daughters  to  figure  in  French 
liars  and  feathers;  for  French  wines  and  French  fashions  com- 
monly keep  pace  with  paper  money.  How  can  I  hope  that 
even  Sleepy  Hollow  can  escape  the  general  inundation?  In  a 
while,  I  fear  the  slumber  of  ages  will  be  at  end;  the 
strum  of  the  piano  will  succeed  to  the  hum  of  the  spinning- 
wheel;  the  trill  of  the  Italian  opera  to  the  nasal  quaver  of 
Ichabod  Crane ;  and  the  antiquarian  visitor  to  the  Hollow,  in 
the  petulance  of  his  disappointment,  may  pronounce  all  that  I 
have  recorded  of  that  once  favored  region  a  fable. 

Geoffrey  Crayon. 


THE   BIRDS   OF   SPRING. 


My  quiet  residence  in  the  country,  aloof  from  fashion,  poli> 
tics,  and  the  money  market,  leaves  me  rather  at  a  loss  for  im- 
portant occupation,  and  drives  me  to  the  study  of  nature,  and 
other  low  pursuits.  Having  few  neighbors,  also,  on  whom  to 
keep  a  watch,  and  exercise  my  habits  of  observation,  I  am  fain 
to  amuse  myself  with  prying  into  the  domestic  concerns  and 
peculiarities  of  the  animals  aroimd  me ;  and,  during  the  present 
season,  have  derived  considerable  entertainment  from  certain 
sociable  little  birds,  almost  the  only  visitors  we  have,  during 
this  early  part  of  the  year. 

Those  who  have  passed  the  winter  in  the  country,  are  sensi- 
ble of  the  delightful  influences  that  accompany  the  earliest 
indications  of  spring;  and  of  these,  none  are  more  delightful 
than  the  first  notes  of  the  birds.  There  is  one  modest  little 
sad-colored  bird,  much  resembling  a  wren,  which  came  about 
the  house  just  on  the  skirts  of  winter,  when  not  a  blade  of 
grass  was  to  be  seen,  and  when  a  few  prematurely  warm  days 
had  given  a  flattering  foretaste  of  soft  weather.  He  sang  early 
in  the  dawning,  long  before  sun- rise,  and  late  in  the  evening, 
just  before  the  closing  in  of  night,  his  matin  and  his  vesper 
hymns.  It  is  true,  he  sang  occasionally  throughout  the  day; 
but  at  these  still  hours,  his  song  was  more  remarked.  He  sat 
on  a  leafless  tree,  just  before  the  window,  and  warbled  forth 
his  n  i  jularly  sw<  et,  wi    i  soine- 

of  a  plaintive  tone,  that  heightened  fcheii 


36  WOLFERTS  ROOST  ANP  MISCELLANIES. 

The  first  morning  that  he  was  heard,  was  a  joyou  one 
among  the  young  folks  of  my  household.  The  long,  death- 
like sleep  of  winter  was  at  an  end;  nature  was  once  more 
awakening;  they  now  promised  themselves  the  immediate  ap- 
pearance of  buds  and  blossoms.  I  was  reminded  of  the  tem- 
pest-tossed crew  of  Columbus,  when,  after  their  long  dubious 
voyage,  the  field  birds  came  singing  round  the  ship,  though 
still  far  at  sea,  rejoicing  them  with  the  belief  of  the  im- 
mediate proximity  of  land.  A  sharp  return  of  winter  almost 
silenced  my  little  songster,  and  dashed  the  hilarity  of  the 
household;  yet  still  he  poured  forth,  now  and  then,  a  few 
plaintive  notes,  between  the  frosty  pipings  of  the  breeze,  like 
gleams  of  sunshine  between  wintry  clouds. 

I  have  consulted  my  book  of  ornithology  in  vain,  to  find  out 
the  name  of  this  kindly  little  bird,  who  certainly  deserves 
honor  and  favor  far  beyond  his  modest  pretensions.  He  comes 
like  the  lowly  violet,  the  most  unpretending,  but  welcomest  of 
flowers,  breathing  the  sweet  promise  of  the  early  year. 

Another  of  out-  feathered  visitors,  who  follows  close  upon 
the  steps  of  winter,  is  the  Pe-wit,  or  Pe-wee,  or  Phoebe-bird ; 
for  he  is  called  by  each  of  these  names,  from  a  fancied  re- 
semblance to  the  sound  of  his  monotonous  note.  He  is  a  so- 
ciable little  being,  and  seeks  the  habitation  of  man.  A  pair 
of  them  have  built  beneath  my  porch,  and  have  reared  several 
broods  there  for  two  years  past,  their  nest  being  never  dis- 
turbed. They  arrive  early  in  the  spring,  just  when  the  crocus 
and  the  snow-drop  begin  to  peep  forth.  Their  first  chirp 
spreads  gladness  through  the  nouse.  ' '  The  Phoebe-birds  have 
come !"  is  heard  on  all  sides ;  they  are  welcomed  back  like  mem- 
bers of  the  family,  and  speculations  are  made  upon  where  they 
have  been,  and  what  countries  they  have  seen  during  their 
long  absence.  Their  arrival  is  the  more  cheering,  as  it  is  pro- 
nounced, by  the  old  weather-wise  people  of  the  country,  the 
sure  sign  that  the  severe  frosts  are  at  an  end,  and  that  the 
gardener  may  resume  his  labors  with  confidence. 

About  this  time,  too,  arrives  the  blue-bird,  so  poetically  yet 
truly  described  by  Wilson.  His  appearance  gladdens  the 
whole  landscape.  You  hear  his  soft  warble  in  every  field.  He 
sociably  approaches  your  habitation,  and  takes  up  his  resi- 
dence in  j  our  vicinity.  But  why  should  I  attempt  to  describe 
him,  when  I  have  Wilson's  own  graphic  verses  to  place  him 
before  the  reader? 


THE  BIRDS  OF  SPXIXG.  37 

When  winter's  cold  tempests  and  snows  are  no  more, 

Green  meadows  and  brown  furrowed  fields  re-appearing: 
The  fishermen  hauling  their  shad  to  the  shore, 

And  cloud-cleaving  geese  to  the  lakes  are  a-steering; 
When  first  the  lone  butterfly  flits  on  the  wing, 

When  red  glow  the  maples,  so  fresh  and  so  pleasing, 
O  then  comes  the  blue-bird,  the  herald  of  spring, 

And  hails  with  his  warblings  the  charms  of  the  season. 

The  loud-piping  frogs  make  the  marshes  to  ring; 

Then  warm  glows  the  sunshine,  and  warm  glows  the  weather*, 
The  blue  woodland  flowers  just  beginning  to  spring, 

And  spice-wood  and  sassafras  budding  together; 
O  then  to  your  gardens,  ye  housewives,  repair, 

Your  walks  border  up,  sow  and  plant  at  your  leisure; 
The  blue  bird  will  chant  from  his  box  such  an  air, 

That  all  your  hard  toils  will  seem  truly  a  pleasure  1 

He  flits  through  the  orchard,  he  visits  each  tree, 

The  red  flowering  peach,  and  the  apple's  sweet  blossoms; 
He  snaps  up  destroyers,  wherever  they  be, 

And  seizes  the  caitiffs  that  lurk  in  their  bosoms; 
He  drags  tne  vile  grub  from  the  corn  it  devours. 

The  worms  from  the  webs  where  they  riot  and  welter; 
His  song  and  his  services  freely  are  ours, 

And  all  that  he  asks  is,  in  summer  a  shelter. 

The  ploughman  is  pleased  when  he  gleams  in  his  train, 

Now  searching  the  furrows,  now  mounting  to  cheer  him; 
The  gard'ner  delights  in  his  sweet  simple  strain, 

And  leans  on  his  spade  to  survej7  and  to  hear  him. 
The  slow  lingering  school-boys  forget  they'll  be  chid, 

While  gazing  intent,  as  he  warbles  before  them, 
In  mantle  of  sky-blue,  and  bosom  so  red, 

That  each  little  loiterer  seems  to  adore  him. 

The  happiest  bird  of  our  spring,  however,  and  one  that  rivals 
the  European  lark,  in  my  estimation,  is  the  Boblincon,  or 
Boblink,  as  he  is  commonly  called.  He  arrives  at  that  choice 
portion  of  our  year,  which,  in  this  latitude,  answers  to  the  de- 
scription of  the  month  of  May,  so  often  given  by  the  poets. 
With  us,  it  begins  about  the  middle  of  May,  and  lasts  until 
nearly  the  middle  of  June.  Earlier  than  this,  winter  is  apt  to 
return  on  its  traces,  and  to  blight  the  opening  beauties  of  the 
year;  and  later  than  this,  begin  the  parching,  and  panting,  and 
dissolving  heats  of  summer.  But  in  this  genial  interval,  na- 
ture is  in  all  her  freshness  and  fragrance:  "  the  rains  are  over 
and  gone,  the  flowers  appear  upon  the  earth,  the  time  of  the 
singing  of  birds  is  come,  and  the  voice  of  the  turtle  is  heard  in 
the  land."  The  trees  are  now  in  their  fullest  foliage  and 
brightest  verdure;  the  woods  are  gay  with  the  clustered 
flowers  of  the  laurel ;  the  air  is  perfumed  by  the  sweet-briar 


38  WOLFERTS  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 

and  the  wild  rose;  the  meadow**  are  enamelled  with,  clover- 
blossoms;  while  the  young  apple,  the  peach,  and  the  plum,  be- 
gin to  swell,  and  the  cherry  to  glow,  among  the  green  leaves. 

This  is  the  chosen  season  of  revelry  of  the  Boblink.  He 
comes  amidst  the  pomp  and  fragrance  of  the  season ;  his  life 
seems  all  sensibility  and  enjoyment,  all  song  and  sunshine. 
He  is  to  be  found  in  the  soft  bosoms  of  the  freshest  and  sw< 
meadows;  and  is  most  in  song  when  the  clover  is  in  blossom. 
He  perches  on  the  topmost  twig  of  a  tree,  or  on  some  long  flaunt- 
ing weed,  and  as  he  rises  and  sinks  with  the  breeze,  pours  I 

•cession  of  rich  tinkling  notes ;  crowding  one  upon  another, 
like  the  outpouring  melody  of  the  skylark,  and  possessing  the 
same  rapturous  character.  Sometimes  he  pitches  from  the 
summit  of  a  tree,  begins  his  song  as  soon  as  he  gets  upon  the 
wing,  and  flutters  tremulously  down  to  the  earth,  as  if  over- 
come with  ecstasy  at  his  own  music.  Sometimes  he  is  in 
pursuit  of  his  paramour;  always  in  full  song,  as  if  he  would 
win  her  by  his  melody  :  ;uid  always  with  the  same  appearance 
of  intoxication  and  delight. 

Of  all  the  birds  of  our  groves  and  meadows,  the  Boblink  was 
the  envy  of  my  boyhood.  He  crossed  my  path  in  the  sweetest 
her,  and  the  sweetest  season  of  the  year,  when  all  nature 
called  to  the  fields,  and  the  rural  feeling  throbbed  in  every 
bosom ;  but  when  I,  luckless  urchin !  was  doomed  to  be  mewed 
up,  during  the  livelong  day,  in  that  purgatory  of  boyhood,  a 
school-room.  It  seemed  as  if  the  little  varlet  mocked  at  me, 
as  he  flew  by  in  full  song,  and  sought  to  taunt  me  with  his 
happier  lot.  Oh,  how  I  envied  him !  No  lessons,  no  tasks,  no 
hateful  school;  nothing  but  holiday,  frolic,  green  fields,  and 
fine  weather.  Had  I  been  then  more  versed  in  poetry,  I  might 
have  addressed  him  in  the  words  of  Logan  to  the  cuckoo : 

Sweet  bird :  thy  bower  is  ever  green, 

Thy  sky  is  ever  clear; 
Thou  hast  no  sorrow  in  thy  note, 

No  winter  in  thy  year. 

Oh!  could  I  fly,  I'd  fly  with  thee; 

We'd  make,  on  joyful  wing, 
Our  annual  visit  round  the  globe, 

Companions  of  the  spring! 

Farther  observation  and  experience  have  given  me  a  different 
idea  of  this  little  feathered  voluptuary,  which  I  will  venture  to 
impart,  for  the  benefit  of  my  school-boy  readers,  who  may 
regard  him  with  the  same  unqualified  envy  and  admiration 
which  I  once  indulged.     I  have  shown  him  only  as  I  saw  him 


Tl  OF  SPRING.  39 

at  first,  in  what  I  may  call  the  poetical  part  of  his  career,  when 
he  in  a  manner  devoted  himself  to  elegant  pursuits  and  enjoy- 
ments, and  was  a  bird  of  music,  and  song,  and  taste,  and 
sensibility,  and  refinement.  While  this  lasted,  he  was  sacred 
from  injury;  the  very  school-boy  would  not  fling  a  stone  at 
him.  and  the  merest  rustic  would  pause  to  listen  to  his  strain 
But  mark  the  difference.  As  the  year  advances,  as  the  clover- 
>ms  disappear,  and  the  spring  fades  into  summer,  hi 
to  vibrate  on  the  ear.  He  gradually  gives  up  his  elegant 
and  habits,  doffs  his  poetical  and  professional  suit  of 
black,  assumes  a  russet  or  rather  dust}'  garb,  and  enters 
the  gross  enjoyments  of  common,  vulgar  birds.  He  becomes  a 
bon-vivant.  a  mere  gourmand:  thinking  of  nothing  but 
cheer,  and  gormandizing  on  the  seeds  of  the  long  grasses  on 
which  he  lately  swung,  and  chaunted  so  musically.  He  begins 
to  think  there  is  nothing  like  '"the  joys  of  the  table,"'  if  I  may 
be  allowed  to  apply  that  convivial  phrase  to  his  indulgences. 
He  now  grows  discontented  with  plain,  every-day  fare,  and  sets 
out  on  a  gastronomical  tour,  in  search  of  foreign  luxuries.  He 
is  to  be  found  in  myriads  among  the  reeds  of  the  Delaware, 
banqueting  on  their  seeds ;  growo  corpulent  with  good  feeding, 
and  soon  acquires  the  unlucky  renown  of  the  ortolan.  Where- 
ever  he  goes,  pop !  pop !  pop !  the  rusty  firelocks  of  the  country 
are  cracking  on  every  side ;  he  sees  his  companions  f ailing  by 
thousands  around  him:  he  is  the  reed-bird,  the  niuch-sought- 
for  tit -bit  of  the  Pennsylvanian  epicure. 

Does  he  take  warning  and  reform?  Not  he!  He  wings  his 
flight  still  farther  south,  in  search  of  other  luxuries.  We  hear 
of  him  gorging  himself  in  the  rice  swamps ;  filling  himself  with 
rice  almost  to  bursting;  he  can  hardly  fly  for  corpuL 
Last  stage  of  his  career,  we  hear  of  him  spitted  by  dozens,  and 
served  up  on  the  table  of  the  gourmand,  the  most  vaunt- 
southern  dainties,  the  rice-bird  of  the  Carolinas. 

Such  is  the  story  of  the  once  musical  and  admired,  but  finally 
sensual  and  persecuted  Boblink.     It  contains  a  moral,  worthy 
the  attention  of  all  little  birds  and  little  boys:  warning  ih<. 
keep  to  those  refined  and  intellectual  pursuits,  which  i 
him  to  so  high  a  pitch  of  popularity,  during  the  early  part  i  f 
his  career ;  but  to  eschew  all  tendency  to  that  gross  and  i 
pated  indulgence,  which  brought  this  mistaken  little  bird  to  an 
untimely  end. 

Which  is  all  at  present,  from  the  well-wisher  of  little  boys 
%nd  little  birds,  Geoffrey  Crayon. 


40  WOLFERTS  MOOS1    AND  MISCELLANIES 

RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THE  ALHAMBRA. 

BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

During  a  summer's  residence  in  the  old  Moorish  palace  of  the 
Alhambra,  of  which  X  have  already  given  numerous  anecdotes 
bo  the  public,  I  used  to  pass  much  of  my  time  in  the  beautiful 
hall  of  the  Aoencerrages,  beside  the  fountain  celebrated  in  the 
tragic  story  of  that  devoted  race.  Here  it  was,  that  thirty-six 
cavaliers  of  that  heroic  line  were  treacherously  sacrificed,  to 
appease  the  jealousy  or  allay  the  fears  of  a  tyrant.  The  foun- 
tain which  now  throws  up  its  sparkling  jet,  and  sheds  a  dewy 
freshness  around,  ran  red  with  the  noblest  blood  of  Granada, 
and  a  deep  stain  on  the  marble  pavement  is  still  pointed  out, 
by  the  cicerones  of  the  pile,  as  a  sanguinary  record  of  the 
massacre.  I  have  regarded  it  with  the  same  determined  faith 
with  which  I  have  regarded  the  traditional  stains  of  Rizzio's 
blood  on  the  floor  of  the  chamber  of  the  unfortunate  Mary,  at 
Holyrood.  I  thank  no  one  for  endeavoring  to  enlighten  my 
credulity,  on  such  points  of  popular  belief.  It  is  like  breaking 
up  the  shrine  of  the  pilgrim;  it  is  robbing  a  poor  traveller  of 
half  the  reward  of  his  toils ;  for,  strip  travelling  of  its  historical 
illusions,  and  what  a  mere  fag  you  make  of  it ! 

For  my  part,  I  gave  myself  up,  during  my  sojourn  in  the 
Alhambra,  to  all  the  romantic  and  fabulous  traditions  connected 
with  the  pile.  I  lived  in  the  midst  of  an  Arabian  tale,  and  shut 
my  eyes,  as  much  as  possible,  to  every  thing  that  called  me  back 
to  every-day  life ;  and  if  there  is  any  country  in  Europe  where 
one  can  do  so,  it  is  in  poor,  wild,  legendary,  proud-spirited, 
romantic  Spain ;  where  the  old  magnificent  barbaric  spirit  still 
contends  against  the  utilitarianism  of  modern  civilization. 

In  the  silent  and  deserted  halls  of  the  Alhambra ;  surrounded 
with  the  insignia  of  regal  sway,  and  the  still  vivid,  though 
dilapidated  traces  of  oriental  voluptuousness,  I  was  in  the 
strong-hold  of  Moorish  story,  and  every  thing  spoke  and 
breathed  of  the  glorious  days  of  Granada,  when  under  the 
dominion  of  the  crescent.  When  I  sat  in  the  hall  of  the  Aben- 
cerrages,  I  suffered  my  mind  to  conjure  up  all  that  I  had  read 
of  that  illustrious  line.  In  the  proudest  days  of  Moslem  domi- 
nation, the  Abencerrages  were  the  soul  of  e\  v,ry  thing  noble 
and  chivalrous.     The  veterans  of  the  family,  who  sat  in  the 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THE  A^tiAMBKA.  41 

royal  council,  were  the  foremost;  to  devise  those  heroic  enter- 
prises, which  carried  dismay  into  the  territories  of  the  Chris- 
tians;  and  what  the  sages  of  the  family  devised,  the  young 
men  of  the  name  were  the  foremost  to  execute.  In  all  services 
of  hazard ;  in  all  adventurous  forays,  and  hair-breadth  hazards ; 
the  Abencerrages  were  sure  to  win  the  brightest  laurels.  In 
those  noble  recreations,  too,  which  bear  so  close  an  affinity  to 
war ;  in  the  tilt  and  tourney,  the  riding  at  the  ring,  and  the 
daring  bull-fight ;  still  the  Abencerrages  carried  off  the  palm. 
None  could  equal  them  for  the  splendor  of  their  array,  the 
gallantry  of  their  devices;  for  their  noble  bearing,  and  glorious 
horsemanship.  Their  open-handed  munificence  made  them 
the  idols  of  the  populace,  while  their  Lofty  magnanimity,  and 
perfect  faith,  gained  them  golden  opinions  from  the  generous 
and  high-minded.  Never  were  they  known  to  decry  the  merits 
of  a  rival,  or  to  betray  the  confidings  of  a  friend;  and  the 
' k  word  of  an  Abencerrage"  was  a  guarantee  that  never  admitted 
of  a  doubt. 

And  then  their  devotion  to  the  fair!  Never  did  Moorish 
beauty  consider  the  fame  of  her  charms  established,  until  she 
had  an  Abencerrage  for  a  lover;  and  never  did  an  Abencerrage 
prove  recreant  to  his  vows.  Lovely  Granada !  City  of  delights ! 
Who  ever  bore  the  favors  of  thy  dames  more  proudly  on  their 
casques,  or  championed  them  more  gallantly  in  the  chivalrous 
tilts  of  the  Vivarambla?  Or  who  ever  made  thy  moon -lit 
balconies,  thy  gardens  of  myrtles  and  roses,  of  oranges,  citrons, 
and  pomegranates,  respond  to  more  tender  serenades? 

I  speak  with  enthusiasm  on  this  theme ;  for  it  is  connected 
with  the  recollection  of  one  of  the  sweetest  evenings  and 
sweetest  scenes  that  ever  I  enjoyed  in  Spain.  One  of  the 
greatest  pleasures  of  the  Spaniards  is,  to  sit  in  the  beautiful 
summer  evenings,  and  listen  to  traditional  ballads,  and  tales 
about  the  wars  of  the  Moors  and  Christians,  and  the  "buenas 
andanzas"  and  "grandes  hechos,"  the  "good  fortunes"  and 
"  great  exploits"  of  the  hardy  warriors  of  yore.  It  is  worthy 
of  remark,  also,  that  many  of  these  songs,  or  romances,  as  they 
are  called,  celebrate  the  prowess  and  magnanimity  in  war,  and 
the  tenderness  and  fidelity  in  love,  of  the  Moorish  cavaliers, 
once  their  most  formidable  and  hated  foes.  But  centuries  have 
elapsed,  to  extinguish  the  bigotry  of  the  zealot ;  and  the  once 
detested  warriors  of  Granada  are  now  held  up  by  Spanish 
poets,  as  the  mirrors  of  chivalric  virtue. 

Such  was  the  amusement  of  the  evening  in  question.     A 


42  WOLFERTS  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 

number  of  us  were  seated  in  the  Hall  of  the  Abencerrages, 
listening  to  one  of  Lhe  most  gifted  and  fascinating  beings  that  I 
had  ever  met  with  in  my  wanderings.  She  was  young  and 
beautiful ;  and  light  and  ethereal ;  full  of  fire,  and  spirit,  and 
pure  enthusiasm.  She  wore  the  fanciful  Andalusian  dress; 
touched  the  guitar  with  speaking  eloquence ;  improvised  with 
wonderful  facility ;  and,  as  she  became  excited  by  her  theme, 
or  by  the  rapt  attention  of  her  auditors,  would  pour  forth,  in 
the  richest  and  most  melodious  strains,  a  succession  of  couplets, 
full  of  striking  description,  or  stirring  narration,  and  composed, 
as  I  was  assured,  at  the  moment.  Most  of  these  were  suggested 
by  the  place,  and  related  to  the  ancient  glories  of  Granada, 
and  the  prowess  of  her  chivalry.  The  Abencerrages  were  her 
favorite  heroes ;  she  felt  a  woman's  admiration  of  their  gallant 
courtesy,  and  high-souled  honor ;  and  it  was  touching  and  in- 
spiring to  hear  the  praises  of  that  generous  but  devoted  race, 
chanted  in  this  fated  hall  of  their  calamity,  by  the  lips  of 
Spanish  beauty. 

Among  the  subjects  of  which  she  treated,  was  a  tale  of  Mos- 
lem honor,  and  old-fashioned  Spanish  courtesy,  which  made  a 
strong  impression  on  me.  She  disclaimed  all  merit  of  inven- 
tion, however,  arid  said  she  had  merely  dilated  into  verse  a 
popular  tradition;  and,  indeed,  I  have  since  found  the  main 
facts  inserted  at  the  end  of  Conde's  History  of  the  Domination 
of  the  Arabs,  and  the  story  itself  embodied  in  the  form  of  an 
episode  in  the  Diana  of  Montemayor.  From  these  sources  I 
have  drawn  it  forth,  and  endeavored  to  shape  it  according  to 
my  recollection  of  the  version  of  the  beautiful  minstrel ;  but, 
alas !  what  can  supply  the  want  of  that  voice,  that  look,  that 
form,  that  action,  which  gave  magical  effect  to  her  chant,  and 
held  every  one  rapt  in  breathless  admiration!  Should  this 
mere  travestie  of  her  inspired  numbers  ever  meet  her  eye,  in 
her  stately  abode  at  Granada,  may  it  meet  with  that  indul- 
gence which  belongs  to  her  benignant  nature.  Happy  should 
1  be,  if  it  could  awaken  in  her  bosom  one  kind  recollection  of 
the  lonely  stranger  and  sojourner,  for  whose  gratification  she 
did  not  think  it  beneath  her  to  exert  those  fascinating  powers 
which  were  the  delight  of  brilliant  circles ;  and  who  will  ever 
recall  with  enthusiasm  the  happy  evening  passed  in  listening 
to  her  strains,  in  the  moon-lit  halls  of  the  Alhambra. 

Geoffrey  Crayon, 


THE  J  RRAQE.  43 

THE  ABENCERRAGE. 

A  SPANISH  TALE. 

On  the  summit  of  a  craggy  hill,  a  spur  of  the  mountains  of 
Ronda,  stands  the  castle  of  Allora,  now  a  mere  ruin,  infested 
by  bats  and  owlets,  but  in  old  times  one  of  the  strong  border 
holds  of  the  Christians,  to  keep  watch  upon  the  frontiers  of  the 
warlike  kingdom  of  Granada,  and  to  hold  the  Moors  in  check. 
It  was  a  post  always  confided  to  some  well-tried  commander; 
and,  at  the  time  of  which  we  treat,  was  held  by  Rodrigo  de 
Xarvaez,  a  veteran,  famed,  both  among  Moors  and  Christians, 
not  only  for  his  hardy  feats  of  arms,  but  also  for  that  magnani- 
mous courtesy  which  should  ever  be  entwined  with  the  sterner 
virtues  of  the  soldier. 

The  castle  of  Allora  was  a  mere  part  of  his  command ;  he  Avas 
Alcayde,  or  military  governor  of  Antiquera,  but  he  passed  most 
of  his  time  at  tins  frontier  post,  because  its  situation  on  the 
borders  gave  more  frequent  opportunity  for  those  adventurous 
exploits  which  were  the  delight  of  the  Spanish  chivalry.  His 
garrison  consisted  of  fifty  chosen  cavaliers,  all  well  mounted 
and  well  appointed :  with  these  he  kept  vigilant  watch  upon 
the  Moslems;  patrolling  the  roads,  and  paths,  and  denies  of 
the  mountains,  so  that  nothing  could  escape  his  eye ;  and  now 
and  then  signalizing  himself  by  some  dashing  foray  into  the 
very  Vega  of  Granada. 

On  a  fair  and  beautiful  night  in  summer,  when  the  freshness 
of  the  evening  breeze  had  tempered  the  heat  of  day,  the 
worthy  Alcayde  sallied  forth,  with  nine  of  his  cavaliers,  to 
patrol  the  neighborhood,  and  seek  adventures.  They  rode 
quietly  and  cautiously,  lest  they  should  be  overheard  by  Moor- 
ish scout  or  traveller;  and  kept  along  ravines  and  hollow  « 
lest  they  should  be  betrayed  by  the  glittering  of  the  full  3 
upon  their  armor.  Coming  to  where  the  road  divided,  the 
Alcayde  directed  five  of  his  cavaliers  to  take  one  of  the 
branches,  while  he,  with  the  remaining  four,  would  take  the 
other.  Should  either  party  be  in  danger,  the  blast  of  a  horn 
was  to  be  the  signal  to  bring  their  comrades  to  their  aid. 

The  party  of  five  had  not  proceeded  far,  when,  in  passing 

through  a  defile,  overhung  with  trees,  they  heard  the  voice  of 

a  man,  singing.     They  immediately  concealed  themselves  in 

>ve,  on  the  brow  of  a  declivity,  up  which  the  stranger 


44  WOLFERTS  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 

would  have  to  ascend.  The  moonhght,  which  left  the  grove  in 
deep  shadow,  lit  up  the  whole  person  of  the  wayfarer,  as  he 
advanced,  and  enabled  them  to  distinguish  his  dress  and  appear- 
ance with  perfect  accuracy.  He  was  a  Moorish  cavalier,  and 
his  noble  demeanor,  graceful  carriage,  and  splendid  attire 
showed  him  to  be  of  lofty  rank.  He  was  superbly  mounted,  on 
a  dapple-gray  steed,  of  powerful  frame,  and  generous  spirit, 
and  magnificently  caparisoned.  His  dress  was  a  marlota,  or 
tunic,  and  an  Albernoz  of  crimson  damask,  fringed  with  gold. 
His  Tunisian  turban,  of  many  folds,  was  of  silk  and  cotton, 
striped,  and  bordered  with  golden  fringe.  At  his  girdle  hung 
a  scimetar  of  Damascus  steel,  with  loops  and  tassels  of  silk  and 
gold.  On  his  left  arm  he  bore  an  ample  target,  and  his  right 
hand  grasped  a  long  double-pointed  lance.  Thus  equipped,  he 
sat  negligently  on  his  steed,  as  one  who  dreamed  of  no  danger, 
gazing  on  the  moon,  and  singing,  with  a  sweet  and  manly 
voice,  a  Moorish  love  ditty. 

Just  opposite  the  place  where  the  Spanish  cavaliers  were 
concealed,  was  a  small  fountain  in  the  rock,  beside  the  road, 
to  which  the  horse  turned  to  drink;  the  rider  threw  the  reins 
on  his  neck,  and  continued  his  song. 

The  Spanish  cavaliers  conferred  together ;  they  were  all  so 
pleased  with  the  gallant  and  gentle  appearance  of  the  Moor, 
that  they  resolved  not  to  harm,  but  to  capture  him,  which,  in 
his  negligent  mood,  promised  to  be  an  easy  task;  rushing, 
therefore,  from  their  concealment,  they  thought  to  surround 
and  seize  him.  Never  were  men  more  mistaken.  To  gather 
up  his  reins,  wheel  round  his  steed,  brace  his  buckler,  and 
couch  his  lance,  was  the  work  of  an  instant;  and  there  he  sat, 
fixed  like  a  castle  in -his  saddle,  beside  the  fountain. 

The  Christian  cavaliers  checked  their  steeds  and  recon- 
noitred him  warily,  loth  to  come  to  an  encounter,  which  must 
end  in  his  destruction. 

The  Moor  now  held  a  parley :  "If  you  be  true  knights,  "  said 
he,  'and  seek  for  honorable  fame,  come  on,  singly,  and  I  am 
ready  to  meet  each  in  succession ;  but  if  you  be  mere  lurkers 
of  the  road,  intent  on  spoil,  come  all  at  once,  and  do  your 
worst !" 

The  cavaliers  communed  for  a  moment  apart,  when  one,  ad- 
vancing singly,  exclaimed:  "Although  no  law  of  chivalry 
obliges  us  to  risk  the  loss  of  a  prize,  when  clearly  in  our  power, 
yet  we  willingly  grant,  as  a  courtesy,  what  we  might  refuse  as 
aright.    Valiant  Moor!  defend  thyself  1" 


TEE  ABENCERRAQB.  45 

So  saying,  he  wheeled,  took  proper  distance,  couched  his 
lance,  and  patting  spurs  to  his  horse,  made  at  the  stranger. 
The  latter  met  him  in  mid  career,  transpierced  him  with  his 
lance,  and  threw  him  headlong  from  his  saddle.  A  second  and 
a  third  succeeded,  but  were  unhorsed  with  equal  facility,  and 
thrown  to  the  earth,  severely  wounded.  The  remaining  two, 
seeing  their  comrades  thus  roughly  treated,  forgot  all  compact 
of  courtesy,  and  charged  both  at  once  upon  the  Moor.  He 
parried  the  thrust  of  one,  but  was  wounded  by  the  other  in  the 
thigh,  and,  in  the  shock  and  confusion,  dropped  his  lance. 
Thus  disarmed,  and  closely  pressed,  he  pretended  to  fly,  and 
was  hotly  pursued.  Having  drawn  the  two  cavaliers  some  dis- 
tance from  the  spot,  he  suddenly  wheeled  short  about,  with  one 
of  those  dexterous  movements  for  which  the  Moorish  horse- 
men are  renowned ;  passed  swiftly  between  them,  swung  him- 
self down  from  his  saddle,  so  as  to  catch  up  his  lance,  then, 
lightly  replacing  himself,  turned  to  renew  the  combat. 

Seeing  him  thus  fresh  for  the  encounter,  as  if  just  issued 
from  his  tent,  one  of  the  cavaliers  put  his  lips  to  his  horn,  and 
blew  a  blast,  that  soon  brought  the  Alcayde  and  his  four  com- 
panions to  the  spot. 

The  valiant  Narvaez.  seeing  three  of  his  cavaliers  extended 
on  the  earth,  and  two  others  hotly  engaged  with  the  Moor, 
was  struck  with  admiration,  and  coveted  a  contest  with  so  ac- 
complished a  warrior.  Interfering  in  the  fight,  he  called  upon 
his  followers  to  desist,  and  addressing  the  Moor,  with  courteous 
w<  >rds,  invited  Mm  to  a  more  jequal  combat.  The  latter  readily 
accepted  the  challenge.  For  some  time,  their  contest  was 
fierce  and  doubtful,  and  the  Alcayde  had  need  of  all  his 
skill  and  strength  to  ward  off  the  blows  of  his  antagonist. 
The  Moor,  however,  was  exhausted  by  previous  fighting,  and 
by  loss  of  blood.  He  no  longer  sat  his  horse  firmly,  nor  man- 
aged him  with  his  wonted  skill.  Collecting  all  his  strength  for 
a  last  assault,  he  rose  in  his  stirrups,  and  made  a  violent  thrust 
with  his  lance;  the  Alcayde  received  it  upon  his  shield,  and  at 
the  same  time  wounded  the  Moor  in  the  right  arm ;  then  clos- 
ing, in  the  shock,  he  grasped  him  in  his  arms,  dragged  him 
from  his  saddle,  and  fell  with  him  to  the  earth:  when  putting 
his  knee  upon  his  breast,  and  his  dagger  to  Ins  throat,  "Cava- 
lier," exclaimed  he,  "render  thyself  my  prisoner,  for  thy  life  is 
in  my  hands  [" 

"Kill  me.  rather,"  replied  the  Moor,  "for  death  would  be  less 
grievous  than  loss  of  libert 


46  WOLFERTS  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 

The  Alcayde,  however,  with  the  clemency  of  the  truly  brave, 
assisted  the  Moor  to  rise,  ministered  to  his  wounds  with  his 
own  hands,  and  had  him  conveyed  w  ith  great  care  to  the  cas- 
tle of  Allora.  His  wounds  were  slight,  and  in  a  few  days  were 
nearly  cured ;  but  the  deepest  wound  had  been  inflicted  on  his 
spirit.     He  was  constantly  buried  in  a  profound  melancholy. 

The  Alcayde,  who  had  conceived  a  great  regard  for  him, 
treated  him  more  as  a  friend  than  a  captive,  and  tried  in  every 
way  to  cheer  him,  but  in  vain ;  he  was  always  sad  and  moody, 
and,  when  on  the  battlements  of  the  castle,  would  keep  his  eyes 
turned  to  the  south,  with  a  fixed  and  wistful  gaze. 

"How  is  this?"  exclaimed  the  Alcayde,  reproachfully,  "that 
you,  who  were  so  hardy  and  fearless  in  the  field,  should  lose  all 
spirit  in  prison?  If  any  secret  grief  preys  on  your  heart,  con- 
fide it  to  me,  as  to  a  friend,  and  1  promise  you,  on  the  faith  of 
a  cavalier,  that  you  shall  have  no  cause  to  repent  the  dis- 
closure.'' 

The  Moorish  knight  kissed  the  hand  of  the  Alcayde.  ' '  Noble 
cavalier,"  said  he  "that  I  am  cast  down  in  spirit,  is  not  from 
my  wounds,  which  are  slight,  nor  from  my  captivity,  for  your 
kindness  has  robbed  it  of  all  gloom;  nor  from  my  defeat,  for  to 
be  conquered  by  so  accomplished  and  renowned  a  cavalier,  is 
no  disgrace.  But  to  explain  to  you  the  cause  of  my  grief,  it  is 
necessary  to  give  you  some  particulars  of  my  story ;  and  this  I 
am  moved  to  do.  by  the  great  sympathy  you  have  manifested 
toward  me,  and  the  magnammity  that  shines  through  all  your 
actions. " 

' '  Know,  then,  that  my  name  is  Abendaraez.  and  that  I  am  of 
the  noble  but  unfortunate  line  of  the  Abencerrages  of  Granada. 
You  have  doubtless  heard  of  .the  destruction  that  fell  upon  our 
race.  Charged  with  treasonable  designs,  of  which  they  were 
entirely  innocent,  many  of  them  were  beheaded,  the  rest  ban- 
I ;  so  that  not  an  Abencerrage  was  permitted  to  remain  in 
Granada,  excepting  my  father  and  my  uncle,  whose  innocence 
was  proved,  even  to  the  satisfaction  of  their  persecutors.  It 
was  decreed,  however,  that,  should  they  have  children,  the 
sons  should  be  educated  at  a  distance  from  Granada,  and  the 
daughters  should  be  married  out  of  the  kingdom. 

"  Conformably  to  this  decree,  I  was  sent,  while  yet  an  infant- 
to  be  reared  in  the  fortress  of  Cartama,  the  worthy  Alcayde  of 
which  was  an  ancient  friend  of  my  father.  He  had  no  chil- 
dren, and  received  me  into  his  family  as  his  own  child,  treating 
me  with  the  kindness  and  affection  of  a  father ;  and  I  grew  up  in 


THE  ABftNCERRAGE.  47 

the  belief  that  he  really  was  such.  A  few  years  afterward,  his 
wife  gave  birth  to  a  daughter,  but  his  tenderness  t<  ►ward  me  con- 
tinued undiminished.  I  thus  grew  up  with  Xarisa,  for  so  the 
infant  daughter  of  the  Alcayde  was  called,  as  her  own  brother, 
and  thought  the  growing  passion  which  I  felt  for  her,  was  mere 
fraternal  affection.  I  beheld  her  charms  unfolding,  as  it  were, 
leaf  by  leaf,  like  the  morning  rose,  each  moment  disclosing 
fresh  beauty  and  sweetness. 

"At  this  period,  I  overheard  a  conversation  between  the 
Alcayde  and  his  confidential  domestic,  and  found  myself  to  be 
the  subject.  '  It  is  time,' said  he,  '  to  apprise  him  of  his  parent- 
age, that  he  may  adopt  a  career  in  life.  I  have  deferred  the 
communication  as  long  as  possible,  through  reluctance  to  inform 
Mm  that  he  is  of  a  proscribed  and  an  unlucky  race. ' 

• '  This  intelligence  would  have  overwhelmed  me  at  an  earlier 
period,  but  the  inthnation  that  Xarisa  was  not  my  sister,  oper- 
ated like  magic,  and  in  an  instant  transformed  my  brotherly 
affection  into  ardent  love. 

1 '  I  sought  Xarisa,  to  impart  to  her  the  secret  I  had  learned. 
I  found  her  in  the  garden,  in  a  bower  of  jessamines,  arranging 
her  beautiful  hair  by  the  mirror  of  a  crystal  fountain.  The 
radiance  of  her  beauty  dazzled  me.  I  ran  to  her  with  open 
arms,  and  she  received  me  with  a  sister's  embraces.  When  we 
had  seated  ourselves  beside  the  fountain,  she  began  to  upbraid 
me  for  leaving  her  so  long  alone. 

"In  reply,  I  informed  her  of  the  conversation  I  had  over- 
heard. The  recital  shocked  and  distressed  her.  '  Alas ! '  cried 
she.  '  then  is  our  happiness  at  an  end ! ' 

11  '  How ! '  exclaimed  I ;  '  wilt  thou  cease  to  love  me,  because  I 
am  not  thy  broth' 

"  '  Not  so,'  replied  she ;  k  but  do  you  not  know  that  when  it  is 
once  known  we  are  not  brother  and  sister,  we  can  no  longer  be 
permitted  to  be  thus  always  together: ' 

k '  In  fact,  from  that  moment  our  intercourse  took  a  new  char- 
acter. We  met  often  at  the  fountain  among  the  jessamine;-, 
but  Xarisa  no  longer  advanced  with  open  arms  to  meet  me. 
She  became  reserved  and  silent,  and  would  blush,  and 
down  her  eyes,  when  I  seated  myself  beside  her.  My  heart 
became  a  prey  to  the  thousand  doubts  and  fears  that  ever 
attend  upon  true  love.  I  was  restless  and  uneasy,  and  looked 
back  with  regret  to  the  unreserved  intercourse  that  had  existed 
between  us,  when  we  supposed  ourselves  brother  and  sister; 
yet  I  would  not  have  had  the  relationship  true,  for  the  world. 


48  W0LFERT8  BOOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 

"  While  matters  were  in  this  state  between  us,  an  order  came 
from  the  King  of  Granada  for  the  Alcayde  to  take  command  of 
the  fortress  of  Coyn,  which  lies  directly  on  the  Christian  fron- 
tier. He  prepared  to  remove,  with  all  his  family,  but  signified 
that  I  should  remain  at  Cartama.  I  exclaimed  against  the 
separation,  and  declared  that  I  could  not  be  parted  from 
Xarisa.  'That  is  the  very  cause,' said  he,  'why  I  leave  thee 
behind.  It  is  time,  Abendaraez,  that  thou  shouldst  know  the 
secret  of  thy  birth ;  that  thou  art  no  son  of  mine,  neither  is 
Xarisa  thy  sister. '  '  I  know  it  all, '  exclaimed  I,  '  and  I  love  her 
with  tenfold  the  affection  of  a  brother.  You  have  brought  us 
up  together;  you  have  made  us  necessary  to  each  other's  hap- 
piness ;  our  hearts  have  entwined  themselves  with  our  growth ; 
do  not  now  tear  them  asunder.  Fill  up  the  measure  of  your 
kindness ;  be  indeed  a  father  to  me,  by  giving  me  Xarisa  for 
my  wife.' 

"The  brow  of  the  Alcayde  darkened  as  I  spoke.  'Have  I 
then  been  deceived  ? '  said  he.  '  Have  those  nurtured  in  my 
very  bosom  been  conspiring  against  me?  Is  this  your  return 
for  my  paternal  tenderness? — to  beguile  the  affections  of  my 
child,  and  teach  her  to  deceive  her  father?  It  was  cause  enough 
to  refuse  thee  the  hand  of  my  daughter,  that  thou  wert  of  a 
proscribed  race,  who  can  never  approach  the  walls  of  Granada ; 
this,  however,  I  might  have  passed  over ;  but  never  will  I  give 
my  daughter  to  a  man  who  has  endeavored  to  win  her  from  me 
by  deception. ' 

' '  All  my  attempts  to  vidicate  myself  and  Xarisa  were  unavail- 
ing. I  retired  in  anguish  from  his  presence,  and  seeking 
Xarisa,  told  her  of  this  blow,  which  was  worse  than  death  to 
me.  '  Xarisa, '  said  I,  '  we  part  for  ever !  I  shall  never  see  thee 
more !  Thy  father  will  guard*  thee  rigidly.  Thy  beauty  and  his 
wealth  will  soon  attract  some  happier  rival,  and  I  shall  be  for- 
gotten ! ' 

"  Xarisa  reproached  me  with  my  want  of  faith,  and  promised 
me  eternal  constancy.  I  still  doubted  and  desponded,  until, 
moved  by  my  anguish  and  despair,  she  agreed  to  a  secret 
union.  Our  espousals  made,  we  parted,  with  a  promise  on  her 
part  to  send  me  word  from  Coyn,  should  her  father  absent  him- 
self from  the  fortress.  The  very  day  after  our  secret  nuptials, 
I  beheld  the  whole  train  of  the  Alcayde  depart  from  Cartama, 
nor  would  he  admit  me  to  his  presence,  or  permit  me  to  bid 
farewell  to  Xarisa.  I  remained  at  Cartama,  somewhat  pacified 
in  spirit  by  this  secret  bond  of  union;  but  every  thing  around 


THE  ABENCBRRAQE.  49 

me  fed  my  passion,  and  reminded  me  of  Xarisa.  I  saw  the 
windows  at  which  I  had  so  often  beheld  her.  I  wandered 
through  the  apartment  she  had  inhabited;  the  chamber  in 
winch  she  had  slept.  I  visited  the  bower  of  jessamines,  and 
lingered  beside  the  fountain  in  winch  she  had  delighted.  Every 
thing  recalled  her  to  my  imagination,  and  filled  my  heart  with 
tender  melancholy. 

' '  At  length,  a  confidential  servant  brought  me  word,  that  her 
father  was  to  depart  that  day  for  Granada,  on  a  short  absence, 
inviting  me  to  hasten  to  Coyn,  describing  a  secret  portal  at 
which  I  should  apply,  and  the  signal  by  which  1  would  obtain 
admittance. 

'If  ever  you  have  loved,  most  valiant  Alcayde,  you  may 
judge  of  the  transport  of  my  bosom.  That  very  night  I  arrayed 
myself  in  my  most  gallant  attire,  to  pay  due  honor  to  my  bride ; 
and  arming  myself  against  any  casual  attack,  issued  forth  pri- 
vately from  Cartama.  You  know  the  rest,  and  by  what  sad 
fortune  of  war  I  found  myself,  instead  of  a  happy  bridegroom, 
in  the  nuptial  bower  of  Coyn,  vanquished,  wounded,  and  a 
prisoner,  withing  the  walls  of  Allora.  The  term  of  absence  of 
the  father  of  Xarisa  is  nearly  expired.  Within  three  days  he 
will  return  to  Coyn,  and  our  meeting  will  no  longer  be  possible. 
Judge,  then,  whether  I  grieve  without  cause,  and  whether  I 
may  not  well  be  excused  for  showing  impatience  under  confine- 
ment." 

Don  Rodrigo  de  Narvaez  was  greatly  moved  by  this  recital ; 
for,  though  more  used  to  rugged  war,  than  scenes  of  amorous 
softness,  he  was  of  a  kind  and  generous  nature. 

"  Abenderaez."  said  he,  "I  did  not  seek  thy  confidence  to 
gratify  an  idle  curiosity.  It  grieves  me  much  that  the  good 
fortune  which  delivered  thee  into  my  hands,  should  have  marred 
so  fair  an  enterprise.  Give  me  thy  faith,  as  a  true  knight,  to 
return  prisoner  to  my  castle,  within  three  days,  and  I  will 
grant  thee  permission  to  accomplish  thy  nuptials." 

The  Abencerrage  would  have  thrown  himself  at  his  feet,  to 
pour  out  protestations  of  eternal  gratitude,  but  the  Alcayde 
prevented  him.  Calling  in  his  cavaliers,  he  took  the  Abencer- 
rage by  the  right  hand,  in  their  presence,  exclaiming  solemnly, 
"You  promise,  on  the  faith  of  a  cavalier,  to  return  to  my  castle 
of  Allora  within  three  days,  and  render  yourself  my  prisoner?" 
And  the  Abencerrage  said.  "I  promise." 

Then  said  the  Alcayde,  "Go!  and  may  good  fortune  attend 


50  WOLFERTS   E00ST  AND   MISCELLANIES. 

you.     If  you  require  any  safeguard,  I  and  my  cavaliers  arc 
ready  to  be  your  companions." 

The  Abencerrage  kissed  the  hand  of  the  Alcayde,  in  grateful 
acknowledgment.  "Give  me,"  said  he,  "my  own  armor, 
and  my  steed,  and  I  require  no  guard.  It  is  not  likely  that  I 
shall  again  meet  with  so  valorous  a  foe."  . 

The  shades  of  night  had  fallen,  when  the  tramp  of  the  dapple 
gray  steed  sounded  over  the  drawbridge,  and  immediately 
afterward  the  light  clatter  of  hoofs  along  the  road,  bespoke  the 
fleetness  with  which  the  youthful  lover  hastened  to  his  bride. 
It  was  deep  night  when  the  Moor  arrived  at  the  castle  of  Coyn. 
He  silently  and  cautiously  walked  his  panting  steed  under  its 
dark  walls,  and  having  nearly  passed  round  them,  came  to  the 
portal  denoted  by  Xarisa.  He  paused  and  looked  around  to 
see  that  he  was  not  observed,  and  then  knocked  three  times 
with  the  butt  of  his  lance.  In  a  little  while  the  portal  was 
timidly  unclosed  by  the  duenna  of  Xarisa.  "Alas!  senor," 
said  she,  "  what  has  detained  you  thus  long?  Every  night  have 
I  watched  for  you ;  and  my  lady  is  sick  at  heart  with  doubt 
and  anxiety. " 

The  Abencerrage  hung  his  lance,  and  shield,  and  scimitar 
against  the  wall,  and  then  followed  the  duenna,  with  silent 
steps,  up  a  winding  stair-case,  to  the  apartment  of  Xarisa. 
;  would  be  the  attempt  to  describe  the  raptures  of  that 
meeting.  Time  flew  too  swiftly,  and  the  Abencerrage  had 
iy  forgotten,  until  too  late,  his  promise  to  return  a  prisoner 
to  the  Alcayde  of  Allora.  The  recollection  of  it  came  to  him 
with  a  pang,  and  suddenly  awoke  him  from  his  dream  of  bliss. 
Xarisa  saw  his  altered  looks,  and  heard  with  alarm  his  stifled 
sighs;  but  her  countenance  brightened,  when  she  heard  the 
cause.  "  Let  not  thy  spirit  be  cast  down,"  said  she,  throwing 
her  white  arms  around  him.  k '  I  have  the  keys  of  my  father's 
treasures ;  send  ransom  more  than  enough  to  satisfy  the  Chris- 
tian, and  remain  with  me." 

"No,"  said  Abendaraez,  "I  have  given  my  word  to  return  in 
person,  and  like  a  true  knight,  must  fulfil  my  promise.  After 
that,  fortune  must  do  with  me  as  it  pleases." 

"Then,"  said  Xarisa,  "I  will  accompany  thee.  Never  shall 
you  return  a  prisoner,  and  I  remain  at  liberty." 

The  Abencerrage  was  transported  with  joy  at  this  new  proof 
of  devotion  in  his  beautiful  bride.  All  preparations  were 
speedily  made  for  their  departure.  Xarisa  mounted  behind  the 
Moor,  on  his  powerful  steed ;  they  left  the  castle  walls  before 


TEE  ABENCERRAli I-:.  51 

daybreak,  nor  did  they  pause,  until  they  arrived  at  the  gate  of 
the  cast!'1  of  Allora,  which  was  flung  wide  to  receive  them. 

Alighting  in  the  court,  the  Abencerrage  supported  the  steps  of 
his  trembling  bride,  who  remained  closely  veiled,  into  the  pres- 
ence of  Rodrigo  de  Narvaez.  ' '  Behold,  vaHant  Alcayde !"  said 
he,  "the  way  in  winch  an  Abencerrage  keeps  his  word.  I  pro- 
mised to  return  to  thee  a  prisoner,  but  I  deliver  two  captive 
into  your  power.  Behold  Xarisa,  and  judge  whether  I  grieved 
without  reason,  over  the  loss  of  such  a  treasure.  Receive  us 
as  your  own.  for  I  confide  my  life  and  her  honor  to  yom 
hands." 

The  Alcayde  was  lost  in  admiration  of  the  beauty  of  the  lady, 
and  the  noble  spirit  of  the  Moor.  "I  know  not,"  said  he, 
''which  of  you  surpasses  the  other;  but  I  know  that  my  castle 
is  graced  and  honored  by  your  presence.  Enter  into  it,  and 
consider  it  your  own,  while  you  deign  to  reside  with  me. " 

For  several  days  the  lovers  remained  at  Allora,  happy  in 
each  other's  love,  and  in  the  friendship  of  the  brave  Alcayde. 
The  latter  wrote  a  letter,  full  of  courtesy,  to  the  Moorish  king 
of  Granada,  relating  the  whole  event,  extolling  the  valor  and 
good  faith  of  the  Abencerrage,  and  craving  for  him  the  royal 
countenance. 

The  king  was  moved  by  the  story,  and  was  pleased  with  an 
opportunity  of  showing  attention  to  the  wishes  of  a  gallant  and 
chivalrous  enemy ;  for  though  he  had  often  suffered  from  the 
prowess  of  Don  Rodigro  de  Narvaez,  he  admired  the  heroic 
character  he  had  gained  throughout  the  land.  Calling  the  Al- 
cayde of  Coyn  into  his  presence,  he  gave  him  the  letter  to  read. 
The  Alcayde  turned  pale,  and  trembled  with  rage,  on  the  perusal. 
1 ' Restrain  thine  anger,"  said  the  king;  "there  is  nothing  thai 
the  Alcayde  of  Allora  could  ask,  that  I  would  not  grant,  if  in 
my  power.  Go  thou  to  Allora;  pardon  thy  children;  take  them 
to  thy  home.  I  receive  this  Abencerrage  into  my  favor,  and  it 
will  be  my  delight  to  heap  benefits  upon  you  all." 

The  kindling  ire  of  the  Alcayde  was  suddenly  appeased.  He 
hastened  to  Allora;  and  folded  his  children  to  his  bosom,  who 
would  have  fallen  at  his  feet.  The  gallant  Rodrigo  de  Nar- 
vaez gave  liberty  to  his  prisoner  without  ransom,  demanding 
merely  a  promise  of  his  friendship.  He  accompanied  the  youth- 
ful couple  and  their  father  to  Coyn,  where  their  nuptials  were 
celebrated  with  great  rejoicings.  When  the  festivities  were 
over,  Don  Rodrigo  de  Narvaez  returned  to  his  fortress  of  Allora. 

After  his   departure,  the   Alcayde   of  Coyn  addressed  hifl 


fi2  WOLFERTS  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 

children:  "To  your  hands/'  said  he,  "I  confide  the  disposi- 
tion of  my  wealth.  One  of  the  first  things  I  charge  you,  is  not 
to  forget  the  ransom  you  owe  to  the  Alcayde  of  Allora.  His 
magnanimity  you  can  never  repay,  but  you  can  prevent  it  from 
wronging  him  of  his  just  dues.  Give  him,  moreover,  your 
entire  friendship,  for  he  merits  it  fully,  though  of  a  different 
faith." 

The  Abencerrage  thanked  him  for  his  generous  proposition, 
which  so  truly  accorded  with  his  own  wishes.  He  took  a  large 
sum  of  gold,  and  enclosed  it  in  a  rich  coffer ;  and,  on  his  own 
part,  sent  six  beautiful  horses,  superbly  caparisoned ;  with  six 
shields  and  lances,  mounted  and  embossed  with  gold.  The 
beautiful  Xarisa,  at  the  same  time,  wrote  a  letter  to  the 
Alcayde,  filled  with  expressions  of  gratitude  and  friendship,  and 
sent  him  a  box  of  fragrant  cypress-wood,  containing  linen,  of 
the  finest  quality,  for  his  person.  The  valiant  Alcayde  dis- 
posed of  the  present  in  a  characteristic  manner.  The  horses 
and  armor  he  shared  among  the  cavaliers  who  had  accompanied 
him  on  the  night  of  the  skirmish.  The  box  of  cypress-wood 
and  its  contents  he  retained,  for  the  sake  of  the  beautiful 
Xarisa ;  and  sent  her,  by  the  hands  of  a  messenger,  the  sum  of 
gold  paid  as  a  ransom,  entreating  her  to  receive  it  as  a  wedding 
present.  This  courtesy  and  magnanimity  raised  the  character 
of  the  Alcayde  Rodrigo  de  Narvaez  still  higher  in  the  estima- 
tion of  the  Moors,  who  extolled  him  as  a  perfect  mirror  of  chi- 
valric  virtue ;  and  from  that  time  forward,  there  was  a  con- 
tinual exchange  of  good  offices  between  them. 


THE  ENCHANTED  ISLAND.  53 

THE  ENCHANTED  ISLAND. 

BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

Break,  Phantsie,  from  thy  cave  of  cloud, 

And  wave  thy  purple  wings, 
Now  all  thy  figures  are  allowed, 

And  various  shapes  of  things. 
Create  of  airy  forms  a  stream; 

It  must  have  blood  and  nought  of  phlegm; 
And  though  it  be  a  walking  dream, 

Yet  let  it  like  an  odor  rise 
To  all  the  senses  here, 
And  fall  like  sleep  upon  their  eyes, 

Or  music  on  their  ear.— Ben  Jonson. 

"There  are  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth  than  are 
dreamed  of  in  our  philosophy,' '  and  among  these  may  be 
placed  that  marvel  and  mystery  of  the  seas,  the  island  of  St. 
Brandan.  Every  school-boy  can  enumerate  and  call  by  name 
the  Canaries,  the  Fortunate  Islands  of  the  ancients;  winch, 
according  to  some  ingenious  speculative  minds,  are  mere 
wrecks  and  remnants  of  the  vast  island  of  Atalantis,  men- 
tioned by  Plato,  as  having  been  swallowed  up  by  the  ocean. 
Whoever  has  read  the  history  of  those  isles,  will  remember 
the  wonders  told  of  another  island,  still  more  beautiful,  seen 
occasionally  from  their  shores,  stretching  away  in  the  clear 
bright  west,  with  long  shadowy  promontories,  and  high,  sun- 
gilt  peaks.  Numerous  expeditions,  both  in  ancient  and  modern 
days,  have  launched  forth  from  the  Canaries  in  quest  of  that 
island ;  but,  on  their  approach,  mountain  and  promontory  have 
gradually  faded  away,  until  nothing  has  remained  but  the  blue 
sky  above,  and  the  deep  blue  water  beloAv.  Hence  it  was 
termed  by  the  geographers  of  old.  Aprosites.  or  the  Inaccessi- 
ble ;  while  modern  navigators  have  called  its  very  existence  in 
question,  pronouncing  it  a  mere  optical  illusion,  like  the  Fata 
Morgana  of  the  Straits  of  Messina;  or  classing  it  with  those 
unsubstantial  regions  known  to  mariners  as  Cape  Flyaway, 
and  the  Coast  of  Cloud  Land. 

Let  not,  however,  the  doubts  of  the  worldly- wise  sceptics  of 
modern  days  rob  us  of  all  the  glorious  realms  owned  by  happy 
credulity  in  days  of  yore.  Be  assured,  O  reader  of  easy  faith ! 
— thou  for  whom  I  delight  to  labor— be  assured,  that  such  an 
island  does  actually  exist,  and  has,  from  time  to  time,  been 


54  WOLFERTS  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 

revealed  to  the  gaze,  and  trodden  by  the  feet,  of  favored 
mortals.  Nay,  though  doubted  by  historians  and  philosophers, 
its  existence  is  fully  attested  by  the  poets,  who,  being  an  in- 
spired race,  and  gifted  with  a  kind  of  second  sight,  can  see 
into  the  mysterie  of  nature,  hidden  from  the  eyes  of  ordinary 
mortals.  Tc  his  gifted  race  it  has  ever  been  a  region  of  fancy 
and  romance,  teeming  with  all  kinds  of  wonders.  Here  once 
bloomed,  and  perhaps  still  blooms,  the  famous  garden  of  the 
Eesperides,  with  its  golden  fruit.  Here,  too,  was  the  enchanted 
garden  of  Armida,  in  which  that  sorceress  held  the  Christian 
paladin,  Einaldo,  in  delicious  but  inglorious  thraldom;  as  is 
set  forth  in  the  immortal  lay  of  Tasso.  It  was  on  this  island, 
also,  that  Sycorax,  the  witch,  held  sway,  when  the  good  Pros- 
pero,  and  his  infant  daughter  Miranda,  were  wafted  to  its 
shores.    The  isle  was  then 

"  full  of  noises, 

Sounds,  and  sweet  airs,  that  give  delight,  and  hurt  not.*' 

Who  does  not  know  the  tale,  as  told  in  the  magic  page  of 
Shakspeare? 

In  fact,  the  island  appears  to  have  been,  at  different  times, 
under  the  sway  of  different  powers,  genii  of  earth,  and  air, 
and  ocean ;  who  made  it  their  shadowy  abode ;  or  rather,  it  is 
the  retiring  place  of  old  worn-out  deities  and  dynasties,  that 
once  ruled  the  poetic  world;  but  are  now  nearly  shorn  of  all 
their  attributes.  Here  Neptune  and  Amphitrite  hold  a  dimi- 
nished court,  like  sovereigns  in  exile.  Their  ocean-chariot 
lies  bottom  upward,  in  a  cave  of  the  island,  almost  a  perfect 
wreck,  while  their  pursy  Tritons  and  haggard  Nereids  bask 
listlessly,  like  seals  about  the  rocks.  Sometimes  they  assume 
a  shadow  of  their  ancient  pomp,  and  glide  in  state  about  the 
glassy  sea:  while  the  crew  of  some  tall  Indiaman,  that  lies 
becalmed  with  flapping  sails,  hear  with  astonishment  the 
mellow  note  of  the  Triton's  shell  swelling  upon  the  ear,  as  the 
invisible  pageant  sweeps  by.  Sometimes  the  quondam  mon- 
arch of  the  ocean  is  permitted  to  make  himself  visible  to 
mortal  eyes,  visiting  the  ships  that  cross  the  line,  to  exact  a 
tribute  from  new-comers ;  the  only  remnant  of  his  ancient  rule, 
and  that,  alas!  performed  with  tattered  state,  and  tarnished 
splendor. 

On  the  shores  of  this  wondrous  island,  the  mighty  kraken 
heaves  his  bulk,  and  wallows  many  a  rood ;  here,  too,  the  sea- 
serpent  lies  coiled  up,  during  the  intervals  of  his  much-con- 


THE  ENCHANTED  ISLAND.  55 

tested  revelations  to  the  eyes  of  true  believers;  and  here,  it  is 
said,  even  the  Flying  Dutchman  finds  a  port,  and  casts  his 
anchor,  and  furls  lus  shadowy  sail,  and  takes  a  short  repose 
from  his  eternal  wanderings. 

Here  all  the  treasures  lost  in  the  deep  are  safely  garnered. 
The  caverns  of  the  shores  are  piled  with  golden  ingots,  boxes 
of  pearls,  rich  bales  of  oriental  silks ;  and  their  deep  recesses 
sparkle  with  diamonds,  or  flame  with  carbuncles.  Here,  in 
deep  bays  and  harbors,  lies  many  a  spell-bound  snip,  long 
given  up  as  lost  by  the  ruined  merchant.  Here,  too,  its  crew, 
long  bewailed  as  swallowed  up  in  ocean,  lie  sleeping  in  mossy 
grottoes,  from  age  to  age.  or  wander  about  enchanted  shores 
and  groves,  in  pleasing  oblivion  of  all  things. 

Such  are  some  of  the  marvels  related  of  tins  island,  and 
which  may  serve  to  throw  some  light  on  the  following  legend, 
of  unquestionable  truth,  which  I  recommend  to  the  entire 
belief  of  the  reader. 


THE  ADELANTADO   OF  THE  SEVEN  CITIES. 

A  LEGEND  OF  ST.    BRANDAN. 

In  the  early  part  of  the  fifteenth  century,  when  Prince 
Henry  of  Portugal,  of  worthy  memory,  was  pushing  the  career 
of  discovery  along  the  western  coast  of  Africa,  and  the  world 
was  resounding  with  reports  of  golden  regions  on  the  main 
land,  and  new-found  islands  in  the  ocean,  there  arrived  at 
Lisbon  an  old  bewildered  pilot  of  the  seas,  who  had  been 
driven  by  tempests,  he  knew  not  whither,  and  who  raved 
about  an  island  far  in  the  deep,  on  which  he  had  landed,  and 
which  he  had  found  peopled  with  Christians,  and  adorned  with 
noble  cities. 

The  inhabitants,  he  said,  gathered  round,  and  regarded  him 
with  surprise,  having  never  before  been  visited  by  a  ship. 
They  told  him  they  were  descendants  of  a  band  of  Christians, 
who  fled  from  Spain  when  that  country  was  conquered  by  the 
Moslems.  They  were  curious  about  the  state  of  their  father- 
land, and  grieved  to  hear  that  the  Moslems  still  held  possession 
of  the  kingdom  of  Granada.  They  would  have  taken  the  old 
navigator  to  church,  to  convince  him  of  their  orthodoxy;  but, 
either  through  lack  of  devotion,  or  lack  of  faith  in  their  words, 
he  declined  their  invitation,  and  preferred  to  return  on  board 
Of  his  ship.     He  was  properly  punished.     A  furious  storm 


56  W0LFERT8  ROOST  AND  MI8CtiLLANIE8. 

arose,  drove  him  from  his  anchorage,  hurried  him  out  to  sea, 
and  he  saw  no  more  of  the  unknown  island. 

This  strange  story  caused  great  marvel  in  Lisbon  and  else- 
where. Those  versed  in  history,  remembered  to  have  read,  in 
an  ancient  chronicle,  that,  at  the  time  of  the  conquest  of  Spain, 
in  the  eighth  century,  when  the  blessed  cross  was  cast  down, 
and  the  crescent  erected  in  its  place,  and  when  Christian 
churches  were  turned  into  Moslem  mosques,  seven  bishops,  at 
the  head  of  seven  bands  of  pious  exiles,  had  fled  from  the 
peninsula,  and  embarked  in  quest  of  some  ocean  island,  or  dis- 
tant land,  where  they  might  found  seven  Christian  cities,  and 
enjoy  their  faith  unmolested. 

The  fate  of  these  pious  saints  errant  had  hitherto  remained  a 
mystery,  and  their  story  had  faded  from  memory;  the  report 
of  the  old  tempest -tossed  pilot,  however,  revived  this  long-for- 
gotten theme ;  and  it  was  determined  by  the  pious  and  enthusi- 
astic, that  the  island  thus  accidentally  discovered,  was  the 
identical  place  of  refuge,  whither  the  wandering  bishops  had 
been  guided  by  a  protecting  Providence,  and  where  they  had 
folded  their  flocks. 

This  most  excitable  of  worlds  has  always  some  darling  object 
of  chimerical  enterprise:  the  "Island  of  the  Seven  Cities"  now 
awakened  as  much  interest  and  longing  among  zealous  Chris- 
tians as  has  the  renowned  city  of  Timbuctoo  among  adven- 
turous travellers,  or  the  North-east  Passage  among  hardy 
navigators;  and  it  was  a  frequent  prayer  of  the  devout,  that 
these  scattered  and  lost  portions  of  the  Christian  family  might 
be  discovered,  and  reunited  to  the  great  body  of  Christendom. 

No  one,  however,  entered  into  the  matter  with  half  the  zeal 
of  Don  Fernando  de  Ulmo,  a  young  cavalier  of  high  standing 
in  the  Portuguese  court,  and  of  most  sanguine  and  romantic 
temperament.  He  had  recently  come  to  his  estate,  and  had 
run  the  round  of  all  kinds  of  pleasures  and  excitements,  when 
this  new  theme  of  popular  talk  and  wonder  presented  itself. 
The  Island  of  the  Seven  Cities  became  now  the  constant  sub- 
ject of  his  thoughts  by  day  and  his  dreams  by  night ;  it  even 
rivalled  his  passion  for  a  beautiful  girl,  one  of  the  greatest 
belles  of  Lisbon,  to  whom  he  was  betrothed.  At  length  his 
imagination  became  so  inflamed  on  the  subject,  that  he  deter- 
mined to  fit  out  an  expedition,  at  his  own  expense,  and  set  sail 
in  quest  of  this  sainted  island.  It  could  not  be  a  cruise  of  any 
great  extent ;  for  according  to  the  calculations  of  the  tempest- 
tossed  pilot,  it  must  be  somewhere  in  the  latitude  of  the  Cana' 


TUE  EjS'CKAJSTED   ISLAM).  57 

ries;  which  at  that  time,  when  the  new  world  was  as  yet 
undiscovered,  formed  the  frontier  of  ocean  enterprise.  Don 
Fernando  applied  to  the  crown  for  countenance  and  protection. 
As  he  was  a  favorite  at  court,  the  usual  patronage  was  readily 
extended  to  him ;  that  is  to  say,  he  received  a  commission  from 
the  king,  Don  loam  II. ,  constituting  him  Adelantado,  or  mili- 
tary governor,  of  any  country  he  might  discover,  with  the 
single  proviso,  that  he  should  bear  all  the  expenses  of  the  dis- 
covery and  pay  a  tenth  of  the  profits  to  the  crown. 

Don  Fernando  now  set  to  wTork  in  the  true  spirit  of  a  projec- 
tor. He  sold  acre  after  acre  of  solid  land,  and  invested  the 
proceeds  in  ships,  guns,  ammunition,  and  sea-stores.  Even  his 
old  family  mansion  in  Lisbon  was  mortgaged  without  scruple, 
for  he  looked  forward  to  a  palace  in  one  of  the  Seven  Cities  of 
which  he  was  to  be  Adelantado.  This  was  the  age  of  nautical 
romance,  when  the  thoughts  of  all  speculative  dreamers  were 
turned  to  the  ocean.  The  scheme  of  Don  Fernando,  therefore, 
drew  adventurers  of  every  kind.  The  merchant  promised 
himself  new  marts  of  opulent  traffic ;  the  soldier  hoped  to  sack 
and  plunder  some  one  or  other  of  those  Seven  Cities ;  even  the 
fat  monk  shook  off  the  sleep  and  sloth  of  the  cloister,  to  join  in 
a  crusade  whioh  promised  such  increase  to  the  possessions  of 
the  church. 

*  One  person  alone  regarded  the  whole  project  with  sovereign 
contempt  and  growling  hostility.  This  was  Don  Eamiro  Al- 
varez, the  father  of  the  beautiful  Serafina,  to  whom  Don  Fer- 
nando was  betrothed.  He  was  one  of  those  perverse,  matter- 
of-fact  old  men  who  are  prone  to  oppose  every  thing  speculative 
and  romantic.  He  had  no  faith  in  the  Island  of  the  Seven 
Cities ;  regarded  the  projected  cruise  as  a  crack-brained  freak ; 
looked  with  angry  eye  and  internal  heart-burning  on  the  Jon- 
duct  of  his  intended  son-in-law,  chaffering  away  solid  Ian 
lands  in  the  moon,  and  scofiingly  dubbed  him  Adelantad  i 
Lubberland.  In  fact,  he  had  never  really  relished  the  intend*  1 1 
match,  to  which  his  consent  had  been  slowly  extorted  by  the 
tears  and  entreaties  of  his  daughter.  It  is  true  he  could  have 
no  reasonable  objections  to  the  youth,  for  Don  Fernando  was 
the  very  flower  of  Portuguese  chivalry.  No  one  could  excel 
him  at  the  tilting  match,  or  the  riding  at  the  ring ;  none  was 
more  bold  and  dexterous  in  the  bull-fight ;  none  composed  more 
gallant  madrigals  in  praise  of  his  lady's  charms,  or  sang  them 
with  sweeter  tones  to  the  accompaniment  of  her  guitar ;  nor 
could  any  one  handle  the  castanets  and  dance  the  bolero  with 


58  WOLFERTS  kOOSf  AND  MlSCELLANlti& 

more  captivating  grace.  All  these  admirable  qualities  and 
endowments,  however,  though  they  had  been  sufficient  to  win 
the  heart  of  Serafina,  were  nothing  in  the  eyes  of  her  unreason- 
able father.  O  Cupid,  god  of  Love !  why  will  fathers  always 
be  so  unreasonable ! 

The  engagement  to  Serafina  had  threatened  at  first  to  throw 
an  obstacle  in  the  way  of  the  expedition  of  Don  Fernando,  and 
for  a  time  perplexed  him  in  the  extreme.  He  was  passionately 
attached  to  the  young  lady ;  but  he  was  also  passionately  bent 
on  this  romantic  enterprise.  How  should  he  reconcile  the  two 
passionate  inclinations?  A  simple  and  obvious  arrangement  at 
length  presented  itself:  marry  Serafina,  enjoy  a  portion  of  the 
honeymoon  at  once,  and  defer  the  rest  until  his  return  from 
the  discovery  of  the  Seven  Cities! 

He  hastened  to  make  known  this  most  excellent  arrange- 
ment to  Don  Ramiro,  when  the  long-smothered  wrath  of  the 
old  cavalier  burst  forth  in  a  storm  about  his  ears.  He  re- 
proached him  with  being  the  dupe  of  wandering  vagabonds 
and  wild  schemers,  and  of  squandering  all  his  real  possessions 
in  pursuit  of  empty  bubbles.  Don  Fernando  was  too  sanguine 
a  projector,  and  too  young  a  man,  to  listen  tamely  to  such 
language.  He  acted  with  what  is  technically  called  "becoming 
spirit. "  A  high  quarrel  ensued ;  Don  Rarniro  pronounced  him 
a  mad  man.  and  forbade  all  farther  intercourse  with  his 
daughter,  until  he  should  give  proof  of  returning  sanity  by 
abandoning  this  mad-cap  enterprise;  while  Don  Fernando 
flung  out  of  the  house,  more  bent  than  ever  on  the  expedition, 
from  the  idea  of  triumphing  over  the  incredulity  of  the  gray- 
beard  when  he  should  return  successful. 

Don  Ramiro  repaired  to  his  daughter's  chamber  the  moment 
the  youth  had  departed.  He  represented  to  her  the  sanguine, 
unsteady  character  of  her  lover  and  the  chimerical  nature  of 
his  schemes ;  showed  her  the  propriety  of  suspending  all  inter- 
course with  him  until  he  should  recover  from  his  present 
hallucination ;  folded  her  to  his  bosom  with  parental  fondness, 
kissed  the  tear  that  stole  down  her  check,  and,  as  he  left  the 
chamber,  gently  locked  the  door ;  for  although  he  was  a  fond 
father,  and  had  a  high  opinion  of  the  submissive  temper  of  his 
child,  he  had  a  still  higher  opinion  of  the  conservative  virtues 
of  lock  and  key.  Whether  the  damsel  had  been  in  any  wise 
shaken  in  her  faith  as  to  the  schemes  of  her  lover,  and  the 
existence  of  the  Island  of  the  Seven  Cities,  by  the  sage  repre- 
sentations of  her  father,  tradition  does  not  say ;  but  it  is  certain 


THE  ENCHANTED  ISLAND.  59 

that  she  became  a  firm  believer  the  moment  she  heard  him 
turn  the  key  in  the  lock. 

Notwithstanding  the  interdict  of  Don  Ramiro,  therefore,  and 
his  shrewd  precautions,  the  intercourse  of  the  lovers  continued, 
although  clandestinely.  Don  Fernando  toiled  all  day,  hurrying 
forward  his  nautical  enterprise,  while  at  night  he  would  repair, 
beneath  the  grated  balcony  of  his  mistress,  to  carry  on  at  equal 
pace  the  no  less  interesting  enterprise  of  the  heart.  At  length 
the  preparations  for  the  expedition  were  completed.  Two  gal- 
lant caravels  lay  anchored  in  the  Tagus,  ready  to  sail  with  the 
morning  dawn ;  while  late  at  night,  by  the  pale  light  of  a  wan- 
ing moon,  Don  Fernando  sought  the  stately  mansion  of  Alvarez 
to  take  a  last  farewell  of  Serafina.  The  customary  signal  of  a 
few  low  touches  of  a  guitar  brought  her  to  the  balcony.  She 
was  sad  at  heart  and  full  of  gloomy  forebodings ;  but  her  lover 
strove  to  impart  to  her  his  own  buoyant  hope  and  youthful 
confidence.  ' '  A  few  short  months, "  said  he,  ' '  and  I  shall  return 
in  triumph.  Thy  father  will  then  blush  at  his  incredulity,  and 
will  once  more  welcome  me  to  his  house,  when  I  cross  its 
threshold  a  wealthy  suitor  and  Adelantado  of  the  Seven  Cities." 

The  beautiful  Serafina  shook  her  head  mournfully.  It  was 
not  on  those  points  that  she  felt  doubt  or  dismay.  She  believed 
most  implicitly  in  the  Island  of  the  Seven  Cities,  and  trusted 
devoutly  in  the  success  of  the  enterprise ;  but  she  had  heard  of 
the  inconstancy  of  the  seas,  and  the  inconstancy  of  those  who 
roam  them.  Now,  let  the  truth  be  spoken,  Don  Fernando,  if 
he  had  any  fault  in  the  world,  it  was  that  he  was  a  little  too 
inflammable ;  that  is  to  say,  a  little  too  subject  to  take  fire  from 
the  sparkle  of  every  bright  eye :  he  had  been  somewhat  of  a 
rover  among  the  sex  on  shore,  what  might  he  not  be  on  sea? 
Might  he  not  meet  with  other  loves  in  foreign  ports?  Might  he 
not  behold  some  peerless  beauty  in  one  or  other  of  those  seven 
cities,  who  might  efface  the  image  of  Serafina  from  his 
thoughts? 

At  length  she  ventured  to  hint  her  doubts;  but  Don  Fernando 
spurned  at  the  very  idea,  Never  could  his  heart  be  false  to 
Serafina!  Never  could  another  be  captivating  in  his  eyes! — 
never— never !  Repeatedly  did  he  bend  his  knee,  and  smite  his 
breast,  and  call  upon  the  silver  moon  to  witness  the  sincerity  of 
his  vows.  But  might  not  Serafina,  herself,  be  forgetful  of  her 
plighted  faith?  Might  not  some  wealthier  rival  present,  while 
he  was  tossing  on  the  sea,  and,  backed  by  the  authority  of  her 
father,  win  I  ^v  of  her  hand? 


60  WOLFERT's  RO  )S1    AM)  MlSCELLANTBk 

Alas,  how  little  did  he  know  Serafina's  heart !  The  more  her 
father  should  oppose,  the  more  would  she  be  fixed  in  her  faith. 
Though  years  should  pass  before  his  return,  he  would  find  her 
true  to  her  vows.  Even  should  the  salt  seas  swallow  him  up, 
(and  her  eyes  streamed  with  salt  tears  at  the  very  thought,) 
never  would  she  be  the  wife  of  another— never— never:  She 
raised  her  beautiful  white  arms  between  the  iron  bars  of  the 
balcony,  and  invoked  the  moon  as  a  testimonial  of  her  faith. 

Thus,  according  to  immemorial  usage,  the  lovers  parted,  with 
many  a  vow  of  eternal  constancy.  But  will  they  keep  those 
vows?  Perish  the  doubt!  Have  they  not  called  the  constant 
moon  to  witness? 

With  the  morning  dawn  the  caravels  dropped  down  the 
Tagus  and  put  to  sea.  They  steered  for  the  Canaries,  in  those 
days  the  regions  of  nautical  romance.  Scarcely  had  they 
reached  those  latitudes,  when  a  violent  tempest  arose.  Don 
Fernando  soon  lost  sight  of  the  accompanying  caravel,  and  was 
driven  out  of  all  reckoning  by  the  fury  of  the  storm.  For 
several  weary  days  and  nights  he  was  tossed  to  and  fro,  at  the 
mercy  of  the  elements,  expecting  each  moment  to  be  swallowed 
up.  At  length,  one  day  toward  evening,  the  storm  subsided; 
the  clouds  cleared  up,  as  though  a  veil  had  suddenly  been  with- 
drawn from  the  face  of  heaven,  and  the  setting  sun  shone 
gloriously  upon  a  fair  and  mountainous  island,  that  seemed 
close  at  hand.  The  tempest-tossed  mariners  rubbed  their 
eyes,  and  gazed  almost  incredulously  upon  this  land,  that  had 
emerged  so  suddenly  from  the  murky  gloom ;  yet  there  it  lay, 
spread  out  in  lovely  landscapes:  enlivened  by  villages,  and 
towers,  and  spires,  while  the  late  stormy  sea  rolled  in  peaceful 
billows  to  its  shores.  About  a  league  from  the  sea,  on  the 
banks  of  a  river,  stood  a  n<  >ble  city,  with  lofty  walls  and  towers, 
and  a  protecting  castle.  Don  Fernando  anchored  off  the  mouth 
of  the  river,  which  appeared  to  form  a  spacious  harbor.  In  a 
little  while  a  barge  was  seen  issuing  from  the  river.  It  was 
evidently  a  barge  of  ceremony,  for  it  was  richly  though  quaintly 
carved  and  gilt,  and  decorated  with  a  silken  awning  and  flutter- 
ing streamers,  while  a  banner,  bearing  the  sacred  emblem  of 
the  cross,  floated  to  the  breeze.  The  barge  advanced  slowly, 
impelled  by  sixteen  oars,  painted  of  a  bright  crimson.  The 
oarsmen  were  uncouth,  or  rather  antique,  in  their  garb,  and 
kept  stroke  to  the  regular  cadence  of  an  old  Spanish  ditty.  Be- 
neath the  awning  sat  a  cavalier,  in  a  rich  though  old-fashioned 
doublet,  with  an  enormous  sombreroand  feather. 


THE  ENCHANTED   ISLAND.  6] 

When  the  barge  reached  the  caravel,  the  cavalier  stepped  on 
hoard.  He  was  tall  and  gaunt,  with  a  long,  Spanish  visage, 
and  lack-lustre  eyes,  and  an  air  of  lofty  and  somewhat  pompous 
gravity.  His  mustaches  were  curled  up  to  his  ears,  his  beard 
was  forked  and  precise ;  he  wore  gauntlets  that  reached  to  his 
elbows,  and  a  Toledo  blade  that  strutted  out  behind,  while, 
in  front,  its  huge  basket-hilt  might  have  served  for  a  por- 
ringer. 

Thrusting  out  a  long  spindle  leg,  and  taking  off  his  sombrero 
with  a  grave  and  stately  sweep,  he  saluted  Don  Fernando  by 
name,  and  welcomed  him,  in  old  Castilian  language,  and  in  the 
style  of  old  Castilian  courtesy. 

Don  Fernando  was  startled  at  hearing  himself  accosted  by 
name,  by  an  utter  stranger,  in  a  strange  land.  As  soon  as  he 
could  recover  from  his  surprise,  he  inquired  what  land  it  was  at 
which  he  had  arrived. 

"The  Island  of  the  Seven  Cities!" 

Could  this  be  true?  Had  he  indeed  been  thus  tempest-driven 
upon  the  very  land  of  which  he  was  in  quest?  It  was  even  so. 
The  other  caravel,  from  which  he  had  been  separated  in  the 
storm,  had  made  a  neighboring  port  of  the  island,  and  an- 
nounced the  tidings  of  this  expedition,  which  came  to  restore 
the  country  to  the  great  community  of  Christendom.  The 
whole  island,  he  was  told,  was  given  up  to  rejoicings  on  the 
happy  event ;  and  they  only  awaited  his  arrival  to  acknowledge 
allegiance  to  the  crown  of  Portugal,  and  hail  him  as  Adelantado 
of  the  Seven  Cities.  A  grand  fete  was  to  be  solemnized  that 
very  night  in  the  palace  of  the  Alcayde  or  governor  of  the  city ; 
who,  on  beholding  the  most  opportune  arrival  of  the  caravel, 
had  despatched  his  grand  chamberlain,  in  his  barge  of  state,  to 
conduct  the  future  Adelantado  to  the  ceremony. 

Don  Fernando  could  scarcely  believe  but  that  this  was  all  a 
dream.  He  fixed  a  scrutinizing  gaze  upon  the  grand  chamber- 
lain, wTho,  having  delivered  his  message,  stood  in  buckram  dig- 
nity, drawn  up  to  his  full  stature,  curling  his  whiskers,  stroking 
his  beard,  and  looking  down  upon  him  with  inexpressible  lofti- 
ness through  his  lack-lustre  eyes.  There  was  no  doubting  the 
word  of  so  grave  and  ceremonious  a  hidalgo. 

Don  Fernando  now  arrayed  himself  in  gala  attire.  He  would 
have  launched  his  boat,  and  gone  on  shore  with  his  own  men, 
but  he  was  informed  the  barge  of  state  was  expressly  provided 
for  his  accommodation,  and,  after  the  fete,  would  bring  him 
back  to  his  ship ;  in  which,  on  the  following  day.  he  might  enter 


r,-J  WOLFERT  -  AND  MISCELKAmi 

the  harbor  in  befitting  style.  He  accordingly  stepped  into  the 
barge,  and  took  his  seat  beneath  the  awning.  The  grand 
chamberlain  seated  himself  on  the  cushion  opposite.  The 
rowers  bent  to  their  oars,  and  renewed  their  mournful  old 
ditty,  and  the  gorgeous,  but  unwieldy  barge  moved  slowly  and 
solemnly  through  the  water. 

The  night  closed  in,  before  they  entered  the  river.  They 
swept  along,  past  rock  and  promontory,  each  guarded  by  its 
tower.  The  sentinels  at  every  post  challenged  them  as  they 
passed  by. 

"  Who  goes  there  ?" 

"The  Adelantado  of  the  Seven  Cities." 

" He  is  welcome.    Pass  on." 

On  entering  the  harbor,  they  rowed  close  along  an  armed 
galley,  of  the  most  ancient  form.  Soldiers  with  cross-bows 
were  stationed  on  the  deck. 

• "  Who  goes  there  ?"  was  again  demanded. 

"The  Adelantado  of  the  Seven  Cities." 

"  He  is  welcome.     Pass  on. " 

They  landed  at  a  broad  flight  of  stone  steps,  leading  up,  be- 
tween two  massive  towers,  to  the  water-gate  of  the  city,  at 
which  they  knocked  for  admission.  A  sentinel,  in  an  ancient 
steel  casque,  looked  over  the  wall.     "Who  is  there  ./-' 

w"  The  Adelantado  of  the  Seven  Cities." 

The  gate  swung  slowly  open,  grating  upon  its  rusty  hinges. 
They  entered  between  two  rows  of  iron-clad  warriors,  in  bat- 
tered armor,  with  cross-bows,  battle-axes,  and  ancient  maces, 
and  with  faces  as  old-fashioned  and  rusty  as  their  aroior.  They 
saluted  Don  Fernando  in  military  style,  but  with  perfect  silence, 
as  he  passed  between  their  ranks.  The  city  was  illuminated, 
but  in  such  manner  as  to  give  a  more  shadowy  and  solemn 
effect  to  its  old-time  architecture.  There  were  bonfires  in  the 
principal  streets,  with  groups  about  them  in  such  old-fashioned 
garbs,  that  they  looked  like  the  fantastic  figures  that  roam  the 
streets  in  carnival  time.  Even  the  stately  dames  who  gazed 
from  the  balconies,  winch  they  had  hung  with  antique  tapestry, 
looked  more  like  effigies  dressed  up  for  a  quaint  mummery, 
than  like  ladies  in  their  fashionable  attire.  Every  thing,  in 
short,  bore  the  stamp  of  former  ages,  as  if  the  world  had  sud- 
denly rolled  back  a  few  centuries.  Nor  was  this  to  be  wondered 
at.  Had  not  the  Island  of  the  Seven  Cities  been  for  several 
hundred  years  cut  off  from  all  communication  with  the  rest  of 
the  world,  and  was  it  not  natural  that  the  inhabitants  should 


THE  EXCiiA^Ti;!>   i<i.a\i>.  63 

retain,  many  of  the  modes  and  customs  brought  here  by  their 
ancestors  ? 

One  thing  certainly  they  had  conserved;  the  old-fashioned 
Spanish  gravity  and  stateliness.  Though  this  was  a  time  or 
public  rejoicing,  and  though  Don  Fernando  was  the  object  of 
their  gratulations,  every  thing  was  conducted  with  the  most 
solemn  ceremony,  and  wherever  he  appeared,  instead  of  accla- 
mations, he  was  received  with  profound  silence,  and  the  most 
formal  reverences  and  swayings  of  their  sombreros. 

Arrived  at  the  palace  of  the  Alcayde,  the  usual  ceremonial 
was  repeated.     The  chamberlain  knocked  for  admission. 

"Who  is  there  ? "  demanded  the  porter. 

"  The  Adelantado  of  the  Seven  Cities." 

• '  He  is  welcome.     Pass  on. " 

The  grand  portal  was  thrown  open.  The  chamberlain  led  the 
way  up  a  vast  but  heavily  moulded  marble  stair-case,  and  so 
through  one  of  those  interminable  suites  of  apartments,  that 
are  the  pride  of  Spanish  palaces.  All  were  furnished  in  a  style 
of  obsolete  magnificence.  As  they  passed  through  the  cham- 
bers, the  title  of  Don  Fernando  was  forwarded  on  by  servants 
stationed  at  every  door ;  and  every  where  produced  the  most 
profound  reverences  and  courtesies.  At  length  they  reached  a 
magnificent  saloon,  blazing  with  tapers,  in  which  the  Alcayde, 
and  the  principal  dignitaries  of  the  city,  were  waiting  to  receive 
their  illustrious  guest.  The  grand  chamberlain  presented  Don 
Fernando  in  due  form,  and  falling  back  among  the  other 
officers  of  the  household,  stood  as  usual  curling  his  whiskers 
and  stroking  his  forked  beard. 

Don  Fernando  was  received  by  the  Alcayde  and  the  other 
dignitaries  with  the  same  stately  and  formal  courtesy  that  lie 
had  every  where  remarked.  In  fact,  there  was  so  much  form 
and  ceremonial,  that  it  seemed  difficult  to  get  at  any  thing 
social  or  substantial.  Nothing  but  bows,  and  compliments,  and 
oldTfashioned  courtesies.  The  Alcayde  and  Ins  courtiers  resem- 
bled, in  face  and  form,  those  quaint  worthies  to  be  seen  in  the 
pictures  of  old  illuminated  manuscripts;  while  the  cavaliers 
and  dames  who  thronged  the  saloon,  might  have  been  takeu 
for  the  antique  figures  of  gobelin  tapestry  suddenly  vivified 
and  put  in  motion. 

The  banquet,  winch  had  been  kept  back  until  the  arrival  of 
Don  Fernando,  was  now  announced;  and  such  a  feast!  such 
unknown  dishes  and  obsolete  dainties ;  with  the  peacock,  that 
bird  of  state  and  ceremony,  served  up  in  full  plumage,  in  a 


64  W0LFERT8  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 

golden  dish,  at  the  head  of  the  table.  And  then,  as  Don  Fer- 
nando cast  his  eyes  over  the  glittering  board,  what  a  vista  of 
odd  heads  and  head-dresses,  of  formal  bearded  dignitaries,  and 
stately  dames,  with  castellated  locks  and  towering  plumes ! 

As  fate  would  have  it,  on  the  other  side  of  Don  Fernando, 
>vas  seated  the  daughter  of  the  Alcayde.  She  was  arrayed,  it 
is  true,  in  a  dress  that  might  have  been  worn  before  the  flood ; 
but  then,  she  had  a  melting  black  Andalusian  eye,  that  was 
perfectly  irresistible.  Her  voice,  too,  her  manner,  her  move- 
ments, all  smacked  of  Andalusia,  and  showed  how  female  fas- 
cination may  be  transmitted  from  age  to  age,  and  clime  to 
clinic,  without  ever  losing. its  power,  or  going  out  of  fashion. 
Those  who  know  the  witchery  of  the  sex,  in  that  most  amorous 
region  of  old  Spain,  may  judge  what  must  have  been  the  fasci- 
nation to  which  Don  Fernando  was  exposed,  when  seated  beside 
one  of  the  most  captivating  of  its  descendants.  He  was,  as  has 
already  been  hinted,  of  an  inflammable  temperament;  with  a 
heart  ready  to  get  in  a  light  blaze  at  every  instant.  And  then 
he  had  been  so  wearied  by  pompous,  tedious  old  cavaliers,  with 
their  formal  bows  and  speeches ;  is  it  to  be  wondered  at  that  he 
turned  with  delight  to  the  Alcayde's  daughter,  all  smiles,  and 
dimples,  and  melting  looks,  and  melting  accents  ?  Beside,  for 
1  wish  to  give  him  every  excuse  in  my  power,  he  was  in  a  par- 
ticularly excitable  mood,  from  the  novelty  of  the  scene  before 
him,  and  his  head  was  almost  turned  with  this  sudden  and 
complete  realization  of  all  his  hopes  and  fancies;  and  then,  in 
tlic  flurry  of  the  moment,  he  had  taken  frequent  draughts  at 
the  wine-cup,  presented  hinuat  every  instant  by  officious  pages, 
and  all  the  world  knows  the  effect  of  such  draughts  in  giving 
potency  to  female  charms.  In  a  word,  there  is  no  concealing 
the  matter,  the  banquet  was  not  half  over,  before  Don  Fernan- 
do was  making  love,  outright,  to  the  Alcayde's  daughter.  It 
was  his  old  habitude,  contracted  long  before  his  matrimonial 

1 1  gagement.  The  young  lady  hung  her  head  coyly ;  her  eye 
rested  upon  a  ruby  heart,  sparkling  in  a  ring  on  the  hand  of 
Don  Fernando,  a  parting  gage  of  love  from  Serafina.  A  blush 
crimsoned  her  very  temples.  She  darted  a  glance  of  doubt  at 
the  ring,  and  then  at  Don  Fernando.  He  read  her  doubt,  and 
in  the  giddy  intoxication  of  the  moment,  drew  off  the  pledge  of 
his  affianced  bride,  and  slipped  it  on  the  finger  of  the  Alcayde's 
daughter. 

At  this  moment  the  banquet  broke  up.  The  chamberlain 
with  his  lofty  demeanor,  and  his  lack-lustre  eyes,  stood  bef  .re 


THE  ENCHANTED  ISLAND.  fi£ 

Mm,  and  announced  that  the  barge  was  waiting  to  conduct  him 
back  to  the  caravel.  Don  Fernando  took  a  formal  leave  of  the 
Alcayde  and  his  dignitaries,  and  a  tender  farewell  of  the  AL 
cayde's  daughter,  with  a  promise  to  throw  himself  at  her  feet 
on  the  following  day.  He  was  rowed  back  to  his  vessel  in  the 
same  slow  and  stately  manner,  to  the  cadence  of  the  same 
mournful  old  ditty.  He  retired  to  his  cabin,  his  brain  whirling 
with  all  that  he  had  seen,  and  his  heart  now  and  then  giving 
him  a  twinge  as  he  recollected  his  temporary  infidelity  to  the 
beautiful  Serafina.  He  flung  himself  on  his  bed,  and  soon  fell 
into  a  feverish  sleep.  His  dreams  were  wild  and  incoherent. 
How  long  he  slept  he  knew  not,  but  when  he  awoke  he  found 
himself  in  a  strange  cabin,  with  persons  around  him  of  whom 
he  had  no  knowledge.  He  rubbed  his  eyes  to  ascertain  whether 
he  were  really  awake.  In  reply  to  his  inquiries,  he  was  in- 
formed that  he  was  on  board  of  a  Portuguese  ship,  bound  to 
Lisbon;  having  been  taken  senseless  from  a  wreck  drifting 
about  the  ocean. 

Don  Fernando  was  confounded  and  perplexed.  He  retraced 
every  thing  distinctly  that  had  happened  to  him  in  the  Island" 
of  the  Seven  Cities,  and  until  he  had  retired  to  rest  on  board  of 
the  caravel.  Had  his  vessel  been  driven  from  her  anchors,  and 
wrecked  during  his  sleep?  The  people  about  him  could  give 
him  no  information  on  the  subject.  He  talked  to  them  of  the 
Island  of  the  Seven  Cities,  and  of  all  that  had  befallen  him 
there.  They  regarded  his  words  as  the  ravings  of  delirium, 
and  in  their  honest  solicitude,  administered  such  rough  reme- 
dies, that  he  was  fain  to  drop  the  subject,  and  observe  a 
cautious  taciturnity. 

At  length  they  arrived  in  the  Tagus,  and  anchored  before  the 
famous  city  of  Lisbon.  Don  Fernando  sprang  joyfully  on 
shore,  and  hastened  to  his  ancestral  mansion.  To  his  surprise, 
it  was  inhabited  by  strangers ;  and  when  he  asked  about  his 
family,  no  one  could  give  him  any  information  concerning 
them. 

He  now  sought  the  mansion  of  Don  Ramiro.  for  the  tempo- 
rary flame  kindled  by  the  bright  eyes  of  the  Alcayde's  daughter 
had  long  since  burnt  itself  out,  and  his  genuine  passion  for 
Serafina  had  revived  with  all  its  fervor.  He  approached  the 
balcony,  beneath  whfch  he  had  so  often  serenaded  her.  Did 
his  eyes  deceive  him?  No!  There  was  Serafina  herself  at  the 
balcony.  An  exclamation  of  rapture  hurst  from  him.  as  he 
raised  his  arms  toward  her.    Shecasl  upon  bima  look  oi  iudig- 


66  W0LFBBT8  ROOST  AND   MISOJSLLANIE& 

nation,  and  hastily  retiring,  closed  the  casement.  Couid  she 
nave  heard  of  his  flirtation  with  the  Alcayde's  daughter?  He 
would  soon  dispel  every  doubt  of  his  constancy.  The  door  was 
open.  He  rushed  up-stairs,  and  entering  the  room,  threw  him- 
self  at  her  feet.  She  shrank  back  with  affright,  and  took  refuge 
m  the  arms  of  a  youthful  cavalier. 

"  What  mean  you,  Sir,"  cried  the  latter,  "  by  this  intrusion?" 

"What  right  have  you,"  replied  Don  Fernando,  "to  ask  the 
question^'* 

"  The  right  of  an  affianced  suitor  I" 

Don  Fernando  started,  and  turned  pale.  * '  Oh,  Serafina I 
Serafina:"  cried  he  in  atone  of  agony,  "is  this  thy  plighted 
constancy 

"  Serafina? — what  mean  you  by  Serafina '.  If  it  be  this  young 
lady  you  intend,  her  name  is  Maria." 

k>  Is  not  this  Serafina  Alvarez,  and  is  not  that  her  portrait?" 
cried  Don  Fernando,  pointing  to  a  picture  of  his  mis*  ress. 

"  Holy  Virgin !"  cried  the  young  lady ;  "he  is  talking  of  my 
great-grandmother !"' 

An  explanation  ensued,  if  that  could  be  called  an  explana* 
tion,  which  plunged  the  unfortunate  Fernando  into  tenfold 
perplexity.  II  he  might  believe  his  eyes,  he  saw  before  him 
his  belt  >\  •  'i  Serafina ;  if  he  might  believe  his  ears,  it  was  merely 
her  hereditary  form  and  features,  perpetuated  in  the  person  of 
her  great-granddaughter. 

if  is  brain  began  to  spin.  He  sought  the  office  of  the  Minister 
of  Marine,  and  made  a  report  of  his  expedition,  and  of  the 
Island  of  the  Seven  Cities,  which  he  had  so  fortunately  discov- 
ered. No  body  knew  any  thing  of  such  an  expedition,  or  such 
an  island.  He  declared  that  he  had  undertaken  the  enterprise 
Under  a  formal  contract  with  the  crown,  and  had  received  a 
regular  commission,  constituting  him  Adelantado.  This  must 
be  matter  of  record,  and  he  insisted  loudly,  that  the  books  of 
the  department  should  be  consulted.  The  wordy  strife  at 
length  attracted  the  attention  of  an  old,  gray-headed  clerk, 
who  sat  perched  on  a  high  stool,  at  a  high  desk,  with  iron- 
rimmed  spectacles  on  the  top  of  a  thin,  pinched  nose,  copying 
records  into  an  enormous  folio.  He  had  wintered  and  sum- 
mered in  the  department  for  a  great  part  of  a  century,  until  he 
had  almost  grown  to  be  a  piece  of  the  desk  at  which  he  sat  • 
his  memory  was  a  mere  index  of  official  facts  and  documents 
and  his  brain  was  little"  better  than  red  tape  and  parchment 
n  for  a  lime  from  bis  lofty  perch,  and  a 


THE  KNCHANTBn  ISLAND. 

Gaining  the  matter  in  controversy,  ho  put  his  pen  behind  his 

par,  and  descended.  He  remembered  to  have  heard  something 
from  his  predecessor  about  an  expedition  of  the  kind  in  ■ 
tion,  but  then  it  had  sailed  during  the  reign  of  Don  loam  II., 
and  lie  had  been  dead  at  least  a  hundred  years.  To  put  the 
r  beyond  dispute,  however,  the  archives  of  the  Torve  do 
Tombo,  that  sepulchre  of  old  Portuguese  documents,  were  dili- 
gently searched,  and  a  record  was  found  of  i  contract  between 
the  crown  and  one  Fernando  de  Ulmo,  for  the  discovery  of  the 
Island  of  the  Seven  Cities,  and  of  a  commission  secured  to  him 
as  Adelantado  of  the  country  he  might  discover. 

''There!"  cried  Don  Fernando,  triumphantly,  "there  you 
have  proof,  before  your  own  eyes,  of  what  I  have  said.  I  am 
the  Fernando  de  Ulmo  specified  in  that  record.  I  have  disc  ,v- 
ered  the  Island  of  the  Seven  Cities,  and  am  entitled  to  be 
Adelantado.  aeco  cling  to  contract."' 

The  story  of  Don  F;  nando  had  certainly,  what  is  pronounced 
the  best  of  historical  foundation,  documentary  evidence;  but 
when  a  man.  in  tiie  bloom  of  youth,  talked  of  events  that  had 
taken  place  above  a  century  previously,  as  having  happened  to 
himself,  it  is  no  wonder  that  he  was  set  down  for  :i  mad  man. 

The  old  elerk  looked  at  him  from  above  and  below  his  spec- 
tacles, shrugged  his  shoulders,  stroked  his  chin,  reascended 
his  lofty  stool,  took  the  pen  from  behind  his  ears,  and  resumed 
his  daily  and  eternal  task,  copying  records  into  the  fiftieth 
volume  of  series  of  gigantic  folios.  The  other  clerks  winked 
at  each  other  shrewdly,  and  dispersed  to  their  several  places, 
and  poor  Don  Fernando  thus  left  to  himself,  flung  out  of  the 
office,  almost  driven  wild  by  these  repeated  perplexities. 

In  the  confusion  of  his  mind,  he  instinctively  repaired  to  the 
mansion  of  Alvarez,  but  it  was  barred  against  him.  To  break 
the  delusion  under  Which  the  youth  apparently  labored,  and  to 
convince  him  that  the  Serafina  about  whom  he  raved  was  really 
dead,  he  was  conducted  to  her  tomb.  There  she  lay,  a  tately 
matron,  cut  out  in  alabaster;  and  there  lay  her  husband  beside 
her;  a  portly  cavalier,  in  armor;  and  there  knelt,  on  each  side, 
the  effigies  of  a  numerous  progeny,  proving  that  she  had  been 
a  fruitful  vine.  Even  the  very  monument  gave  proof  of  the 
lapse  of  time,  for  the  hands  of  1  ind,  which  were  folded 

as  if  in  prayer,  had  lost  their  :  ud  the  face  of  the  once 

lovely  Serafina  was  n< 

Don  Fernando  felt  a  transient  glow  of  indignation  ftl  behold- 
ing this  monui   ental  ;  icy  of  his  misl 


68  WOLFERTS  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 

but  who  could  expect  a  mistress  to  remain  constant  during  a 
whole  century  of  absence?  And  what  right  had  he  to  rail 
about  constanc3r,  after  what  had  passed  between  him  and  the 
Alcayde's  daughter?  The  unfortunate  cavalier  performed  one 
pious  act  of  tender  devotion;  he  had  the  alabaster  nose  of 
Serafina  restored  by  a  skilful  statuary,  and  then  tore  himself 
from  the  tomb. 

He  could  now  no  longer  doubt  the  fact  that,  somehow  or 
other,  he  had  skipped  over  a  whole  century,  during  the  night 
he  had  spent  at  the  Island  of  the  Seven  Cities ;  and  he  was  now 
as  complete  a  stranger  in  his  native  city,  as  if  he  had  never 
there.  A  thousand  times  did  he  wish  himself  back  to 
that  wonderful  island,  with  its  antiquated  banquet  halls,  where 
he  had  been  so  courteously  received ;  and  now  that  the  once 
young  and  beautiful  Serafina  was  nothing  but  a  great-grand- 
mother in  marble,  with  generation*  of  descendants,  a  thousand 
times  would  he  recall  the  melting  black  eyes  of  the  Alcayde's 
daughter,  wh©  doubtless,  like  himself,  was  still  flourishing  in 
fresh  juvenility,  and  breathe  a  secret  wish  that  he  were  seated 
by  her  side. 

He  would  at  once  have  set  on  foot  another  expedition,  at  his 
own  expense,  to  cruise  in  search  of  the  sainted  island,  but  his 
means  were  exhausted.  He  endeavored  to  rouse  others  to  the 
enterprise,  setting  forth  the  certainty  of  profitable  results,  of 
which  his  own  experience  furnished  such  unquestionable 
proof.  Alas !  no  one  would  give  faith  to  his  tale ;  but  looked 
upon  it  as  the  feverish  dream  of  a  shipwrecked  man.  He 
persisted  in  his  efforts ;  holding  forth  in  all  places  and  all  com- 
panies, until  he  became  an  object  of  jest  and  jeer  to  the  light- 
minded,  who  mistook  his  earnest  enthusiasm  for  a  proof  of 
insanity;  and  the  very  children  in  the  streets  bantered  him 
with  the  title  of  ''The  Adelantado  of  the  Seven  Cities." 

Finding  all  his  efforts  in  vain,  in  his  native  city  of  Lisbon, 
he  took  shipping  for  the  Canaries,  as  being  nearer  the  latitude 
of  his  former  cruise,  and  inhabited  by  people  given  to  nautical 
adventure.  Here  he  found  ready  listeners  to  his  story ;  for  the 
old  pilots  and  mariners  of  those  parts  were  notorious  island- 
hunters  and  devout  believers  in  all  the  wonders  of  the  seas. 
Indeed,  one  and  all  treated  his  adventure  as  a  common  occur- 
rence, and  turning  to  each  other,  with  a  sagacious  nod  of  the 
head,  observed,  "He  has  been  at  the  Island  of  St.  Brandan." 

They  then  went  on  to  inform  him  of  that  great  marvel  and 
enigma  of  the  ocean;  of  its  repeated  appearance  to  the  inhabit 


NA  TIONJ I    NOM  EN(  I.  A  TUBE.  69 

tants  of  their  islands;  and  of  the  many  but  ineffectual  expe- 
ditions that  had  been  made  in  search  of  it.  They  took  him  to 
a  promontory  of  the  island  of  Palma.  from  whence  the  shadowy 
St.  Brandan  had  oftenest  been  descried,  and  they  pointed  out 
the  very  tract  in  the  west  where  its  mountains  had  been  seen. 

Don  Fernando  listened  with  rapt  attention.  He  had  no  longer 
a  doubt  that  this  mysterious  and  fugacious  island  must  be  the 
same  with  that  of  the  Seven  Cities ;  and  that  there  must  be 
some  supernatural  iniluence  connected  with  it,  that  had 
operated  upon  himself,  and  made  the  events  of  a  night  occupy 
the  space  of  a  century. 

He  endeavored,  but  in  vain,  to  rouse  the  islanders  to  another 
attempt  at  discovery ;  they  had  given  up  the  phantom  island 
as  indeed  inaccessible.  Fernando,  however,  was  not  to  be  dis- 
couraged. The  idea  Avore  itself  deeper  and  deeper  in  his  mind, 
until  it  became  the  engrossing  subject  of  his  thoughts  and 
object  of  his  being.  Every  morning  he  would  repair  to  the 
promontory  of  Palma.  and  sit  there  throughout  the  live-long 
day.  in  hopes  of  seeing  the  fairy  mountains  of  St.  Brandan 
peering  above  the  horizon;  every  evening  he  returned  to  his 
home,  a  disappointed  man,  but  ready  to  resume  his  post  on  the 
following  morning. 

His  assiduity  was  all  in  vain.  He  grew  gray  in  his  ineffec- 
tual attempt ;  and  was  at  length  found  dead  at  his  post.  His 
grave  is  still  shown  in  the  island  of  Palma,  and  a  cross  is  erected 
on  the  spot  where  he  used  to  sit  and  look  out  upon  the  sea,  in 
hopes  of  the  reappearance  of  the  enchanted  island. 


NATIONAL  NOMENCLATURE. 

TO  THE  EDITOR  OF  THE  KNICKERBOCKER. 

Sir:  I  am  somewhat  of  the  same  way  of  thinking,  in  regard 
to  names,  with  thai  profound  philosopher,  Mr.  Shandy,  the 
elder,  who  maintained  that  some  inspired  high  thoughts  and 
heroic  aims,  while  others  entailed  irretrievable  meanness  and 
vulgarity;  insomuch  that  a  man  might  sink  under  the  insigni- 
ficance of  his  name,  and  be  absolutely  '  *  Nicodemused  into 
nothing.''  1  have  ever,  therefore,  thought  it  a  great  hardship 
for  a  man  to  be  obliged  to  struggle  through  life  with  some  ri- 


70  W0LFEBT8  1WOST  AM)  MISCELLANIES. 

diculous  or  ignoble  Christian  name,  as  it  is  too  of  ten  falsely 
called,  inflicted  on  him  in  infancy,  when  he  could  not  choose 
for  himself ;  and  would  give  him  free  liberty  to  change  it  for 
one  more  to  his  taste,  when  he  had  arrived  at  years  of  dis- 
cretion. 

I  have  the  same  notion  with  respect  to  local  names.  Some 
at  once  prepossess  us  in  favor  of  a  place ;  others  repel  us,  by 
unlucky  associations  of  the  mind;  and  I  have  known  scenes 
worthy  of  being  the  very  haunt  of  poetry  and  romance,  yet 
doomed  to  irretrievable  vulgarity,  by  some  ill-chosen  name, 
which  not  even  the  magic  numbers  of  a  Halleck  or  a  Bryant 
could  elevate  into  poetical  acceptation. 

This  is  an  evil  unfortunately  too  prevalent  throughout  our 
country.  Nature  lias  stamped  the  land  Avith  features  of  subli- 
mity and  beauty ;  but  some  of  our  noblest  mountains  and  love- 
liest streams  are  in  danger  of  remaining  for  ever  unhonored 
and  unsung,  from  bearing  appellations  totally  abhorrent  to  the 
Muse.  In  the  first  place,  our  country  is  deluged  with  names 
taken  from  places  in  the  old  world,  and  applied  to  places  having 
no  possible  affinity  or  resemblance  to,  their  namesakes.  This 
betokens  a  forlorn  poverty  of  invention,  and  a  second-hand 
spirit,  content  to  cover  its  nakedness  with  borrowed  or  cast-off 
clothes  of  Europe. 

Then  we  have  a  shallow  affectation  of  scholarship :  the  whole 
catalogue  of  ancient  worthies  is  shaken  out  from  the  back  of 
Lempriere's  Classical  Dictionary,  and  a  wide  region  of  wild 
country  sprinkled  over  with  the  names  of  the  heroes,  poets, 
and  sages  of  antiquity,  jumbled  into  the  most  whimsical  juxta- 
position. Then  we  have  our  political  god-fathers ;  topographi- 
cal engineers,  perhaps,  or  persons  employed  by  government  to 
survey  and  lay  out  townships.  These,  forsooth,  glorify  the 
patrons  that  give  them  bread ;  so  we  have  the  names  of  the 
great  official  men  of  the  day  scattered  over  the  land,  as  if  they 
were  the  real  "  salt  of  the  earth,"  with  which  it  was  to  be  sea- 
soned. Well  for  us  is  it,  when  these  official  great  men  happen 
to  have  names  of  fair  acceptation;  but  wo  unto  us,  should  a 
Tubbs  or  a  Potts  be  in  power :  we  are  sure,  in  a  little  while, 
to  find  Tubbsvilles  and  Pottsylvanias  springing  up  in  every 
direction. 

Under  these  melancholy  dispensations  of  taste  and  loyalty, 
therefore,  Mr.  Editor,  it  is  with  a  feeling  of  dawning  hope,  that 
I  have  lately  perceived  the  attention  of  persons  of  intelligence 
beginning  to  be  awakened  on  this  subject.     I  trust  if  the  mat- 


\T10NAL  UrOMBNGLATUBE,  71 

tear  should  once  be  taken  up.  it  will  not  be  readily  abandoned. 
We  are  yet  young  enough,  as  a  country,  to  remedy  and  reform 
much  of  what  has  been  done,  and  to  release  many  of  our  rising 
towns  and  cities,  and  our  noble  streams,  from  names  calculated 
to  vulgarize  the  land. 

I  have,  on  a  former  occasion,  suggested  the  expediency 
of  searching  out  the  original  Indian  names  of  places,  and 
wherever  they  are  striking  and  euphonious,  and  those  by 
which  they  have  been  superseded  are  glaringly  objectionable, 
to  restore  them.  They  woidd  have  the  merit  of  originality, 
and  of  belonging  to  the  country;  and  they  would  remain  as 
reliques  of  the  native  lords  of  the  soil,  when  every  other  vestige 
had  disappeared.  Many  of  these  names  may  easily  be  regained, 
by  reference  to  old  title  deeds,  and  to  the  archives  of  states  and 
counties.  In  my  own  case,  by  examining  the  records  of  the 
county  clerk's  office,  I  have  discovered  the  Indian  names  of 
various  places  and  objects  in  the  neighborhood,  and  have 
found  them  infinitely  superior  to  the  trite,  poverty-stricken 
names  which  had  been  given  by  the  settlers.  A  beautiful  pas- . 
toral  stream,  for  instance,  which  winds  for  many  a  mile 
through  one  of  the  loveliest  little  valleys  in  the  state,  has  long 
been  known  by  the  common-place  name  of  the  ' '  Saw-mill  River. " 
In  the  old  Indian  grants,  it  is  designated  as  the  Neperan. 
Another,  a  perfectly  wizard  stream,  which  winds  through  the 
wildest  recesses  of  Sleepy  Hollow,  bears  the  hum-drum  name 
of  Mill  Creek :  in  the  Indian  grants,  it  sustains  the  euphonious 
title  of  the  Pocantico. 

Similar  researches  have  released  Long-Island  from  many  of 
those  paltry  and  vulgar  names  which  fringed  its  beautiful  shores ; 
their  Cow  Bays,  and  Cow  Necks,  and  Oyster  Ponds,  and  Mus- 
quito  Coves,  which  spread  a  spell  of  vulgarity  over  the  whole 
island,  and  kept  persons  of  taste  and  fancy  at  a  distance. 

It  would  be  an  object  worthy  the  attention  of  the  historical 
societies,  which  are  springing  up  in  various  parts  of  the  Union, 
to  have  maps  executed  of  their  respective  states  or  neighbor- 
hoods, in  which  all  the  Indian  local  names  should,  as  far  as 
possible,  be  restored.  In  fact,  it  appears  to  me  that  the  nomen- 
clature of  the  country  is  almost  of  sufficient  importance  for  the 
foundation  of  a  distinct  society;  or  rather,  a  corresponding 
association  of  persons  of  taste  and  judgment,  of  all  parts  of  the 
Union.  Such  an  association,  if  properly  constituted  and  com- 
posed, comprising  especially  all  the  literary  talei.t  of  the 
country,  though  it  might  not  have  legislative  power  in  its 


72  WOLFMRTS  BOOST    \M>  MISCELLANIES. 

enactments,  yet  would  -nave  the  all-pervading  power  of  the 
press ;  and  the  changes  in  nomenclature  which  it  might  dictate, 
being  at  once  adopted  by  elegant  writers  in  prose  and  poetry, 
and  interwoven  with  the  literature  of  the  country,  would  ulti- 
mately pass  into  popular  currency. 

Should  such  a  reforming  association  arise,  I  beg  to  recommend 
to  its  attention  all  those  mongrel  names  that  have  the  adjec- 
Xeic  prefixed  to  them,  and  pray  they  may  be  one  and  all 
kicked  out  of  the  country.  I  am  for  none  of  these  second-hand 
appellations,  that  stamp  us  a  second-hand  people,  and  that  are 
to  perpetuate  us  a  new  country  to  the  end  of  time.  Odds  my 
life !  Mr,  Editor,  I  hope  and  trust  we  are  to  live  to  be  an  old 
nation,  as  well  as  our  neighbors,  and  have  no  idea  that  our 
cities,  when  they  shall  have  attained  to  venerable  antiquity, 
shall  still  be  dubbed  New-York,  and  A7ezr-London,  and  new  this 
and  new  that,  like  the  Pont-Neuf,  (the  New  Bridge,)  at  Paris, 
which  is  the  oldest  bridge  in  that  capital,  or  like  the  Vicar  of 
Wakefields  horse,  which  continued  to  be  called  "the  colt," 
until  he  died  of  old  age. 

Speaking  of  New- York,  reminds  me  of  some  observations 
which  I  met  with  some  time  since,  in  one  of  the  public  papers, 
about  the  name  of  our  state  and  city.  The  writer  proposes  to 
substitute  for  the  present  names,  those  of  the  State  of  Ontario, 
and  the  City  of  Manhattan.  I  concur  in  his  suggestion  most 
heartily.  Though  born  and  brought  up  in  the  city  of  New- 
York,  and  though  I  love  every  stick  and  stone  about  it,  yet  I  do 
not,  nor  ever  did,  relish  its  name.  I  like  neither  its  sound  nor 
its  significance.  As  to  its  significance,  the  very  adjective  new 
gives  to  our  great  commercial  metropolis  a  second-hand  char- 
a  ;ter,  as  if  referring  to  some  older,  more  dignified,  and  impor- 
tant place,  of  which  it  was  a  mere  copy ;  though  in  fact,  if  I 
an  rightly  informed,  the  whole  name  commemorates  a  grant 
by  Charles  II.  to  his  brother,  the  duke  of  York,  made  in  the 
spirit  of  royal  munificence,  of  a  tract  of  country  which  did  not 
belong  to  him.  As  to  the  sound,  what  can  you  make  of  it, 
either  in  poetry  or  prose?  New- York !  Why,  Sir,  if  it  were  to 
share  the  fate  of  Troy  itself ;  to  suffer  a  ten  years'  siege,  and  be 
sacked  and  plundered ;  no  modern  Homer  would  ever  be  able 
to  elevate  the  nan.e  to  epic  dignity. 

Now,  Sir,  Ontario  would  be  a  name  worthy  of  the  empire 
state.  It  bears  with  it  the  majesty  of  that  internal  sea  which 
washes  our  northwestern  shore.  Or,  if  any  objection  should  be 
made,  from  its    not  being  completely  embraced  within  our 


\TIOXAL  NOMENCLATURE.  73 

boundaries,  there  is  the  Mohegan,  one  of  the  Indian  names  for 
that  glorious  river,  the  Hudson,  vhich  would  furnish  an  < 
lent  state  appellation.  So  also  New- York  might  be  called  Ma  n- 
hatta,  as  it  is  named  in  some  of  the  early  records,  and  Manhat- 
tan used  as  the  adjective.  Manhattan,  however,  stands  well  as  a 
substantive,  and  "Manhattanese,"  which  I  observe  Mr.  Cooper 
has  adopted  in  some  of  his  writings,  would  be  a  very  good 
appellation  for  a  citizen  of  the  commercial  metropolis. 

A  word  or  two  more,  Mr.  Editor,  and  I  have  done.  We  want 
a  national  name.  We  want  it  poetically,  and  we  w ant  it  poli- 
tically. With  the  poetical  necessity  of  the  case  I  shall  not 
trouble  myself.  I  leave  it  to  our  poets  to  tell  how  they  manage 
to  steer  that  collocation  of  words,  "  The  United  Stater,  of  North 
America,"  down  the  swelling  tide  of  song,  and  to  float  the 
whole  raft  out  upon  the  sea  of  heroic  poesy.  I  am  now  speak- 
ing of  the  mere  purposes  of  common  life.  How  is  a  citizen  of 
this  republic  to  designate  himself?  As  an  American ?  There 
are  two  Americas,  each  subdivided  into  various  empires, 
rapidly  rising  in  importance.  As  a  citizen  of  the  United 
States?  It  is  a  clumsy,  lumbering  title,  yet  still  it  is  not  dis- 
tinctive :  for  we  have  now  the  United  States  of  Central  .Amer- 
ica; and  heaven  knows  how  many  "  United  States"  may  sprin  -; 
up  under  the  Proteus  changes  of  Spanish  America. 

This  may  appear  matter  of  small  concermnent ;  but  any  one 
that  has  travelled  in  foreign  countries  must  be  conscious  of  the 
embarrassment  and  circumlocution  sometimes  occasioned  by 
the  want  of  a  perfectly  distinct  and  explicit  national  appella- 
tion. In  France,  when  I  have  announced  myself  as  an  Ameri- 
can, I  have  been  supposed  to  belong  to  one  of  the  French 
colonies ;  in  Spain,  to  be  from  Mexico,  or  Peru,  or  some  other 
Spanish- American  country.  Repeatedly  have  I  found  myself 
involved  in  a  long  geographical  and  political  definition  of  my 
national  identity. 

Now,  Sir,  meaning  no  disrespect  to  any  of  our  co-heirs  of  this 
great  quarter  of  the  world,  I  am  for  none  of  this  coparceny  in 
a  name  that  is  to  mingle  us  up  with  the  riff-raff  colonies  and 
off-sets  of  every  nation  of  Europe.  The  title  of  American  may 
serve  to  tell  the  quarter  of  the  world  to  which  I  belong,  the 
same  as  a  Frenchman  or  an  Englishman  may  call  himself  a 
F^i-opean;  but  I  want  my  own  peculiar  national  name  to  rally 
under.  I  want  an  appellation  that  shall  tell  at  once,  and  in  a 
y»ay  not  to  be  mistaken,  that  I  belong  to  this  very  portion  of 
An. erica,  geographical  and  political,  to  which  it  is  my  pride 


74  W0LFERT8  BOOST  Ay  J)  MH3VHLLANIE8. 

and  happiness  to  belong ;  that  I  am  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race 
which  founded  this  Anglo-Saxon  empire  in  the  wilderness ;  and 
that  I  have  no  part  or  parcel  with  any  other  race  or  empire, 
Spanish,  French,  or  Portuguese,  in  either  of  the  Americas. 
Such  an  appellation,  Sir,  would  have  magic  in  it.  It  would 
bind  every  part  of  the  confederacy  together  as  with  a  key- 
stone; it  would  be  a  passport  to  the  citizen  of  our  republic 
throughout  the  world. 

We  have  it  in  our  power  to  furnish  ourselves  with  such  a 
national  appellation,  from  one  of  the  grand  and  eternal  fea- 
tures of  our  country;  from  that  noble  chain  of  mountains 
which  formed  its  back-bone,  and  ran  through  the  "old  con- 
federacy," when  it  first  declared  our  national  independence. 
I  allude  to  the  Appalachian  or  Alleghany  mountains.  We 
might  do  this  without  any  very  inconvenient  change  in  our 
present  titles.  We  might  still  use  the  phrase,  "The  United 
States/'  substituting  Appalachia,  or  Alleghania,  (I  should  pre- 
fer the  latter,)  in  place  of  America.  The  title  of  Appalachian, 
or  Alleghaoian,  would  still  announce  us  as  Americans,  but 
would  spo'.'ify  us  as  citizens  of  the  Great  Republic.  Even  our 
old  national  cypher  of  U.  S.  A.  might  remain  unaltered,  desig- 
nating tbe  United  States  of  Alleghania. 

These  are  crude  ideas,  Mr.  Editor,  hastily  thrown  out  to 
elicit  tl^ a  ideas  of  others,  and  to  call  attention  to  a  subject  of 
«w«  national  importance  than  may  at  first  be  supposed. 

Very  respectfully  yours, 

Geoffrey  Crayon. 


DESULTORY  THOUGHTS  ON  CRITICISM. 

Let  a  man  write  never  so  well,  there  are  now-a-days  a  sort  of  persons  they  call 
critics,  that,  egad,  have  no  more  wit  in  them  than  so  many  hobby-horses:  but 
they'll  laugh  at  you.  Sir.  and  fincl  fault,  and  censure  things,  that,  egad,  I'm  sure 
they  are  not  able  to  do  themselves:  a  sort  of  envious  persons,  that  emulate  the 
glories  of  persons  of  parts,  and  think  to  build  their  fame  by  calumniation  of  per- 
sons that,  egad,  to  my  knowledge,  of  all  persons  in  the  world,  are  in  nature  the 
persons  that  do  as  much  despise  all  that,  as— a—  In  fine,  I'll  say  no  more  of  !emlr 
—Rehearsal. 

All  the  world  knows  the  story  of  the  tempest-tossed  voyager, 
who,  coming  upon  a  strange  coast,  and  seeing  a  man  hanging 
in  chains,  hailed  it  with  joy,  as  the  sign  of  a  civilized  country. 
Tn  like  manner  we  may  hail,  as  a  proof  of  the  rapid  advance- 


titiSVLTORY   tl  i   ftfl    CRITICISM.  75 

ment  of  civilization  and  refinement  in  this  country,  the  in- 
creasing number  of  delinquent  authors  daily  gibbeted  for  tha 
edification  of  the  public. 

In  this  respect,  as  in  every  other,  we  are  ' '  going  ahead  "  with 
accelerated  velocity,  and  promising  to  outstrip  the  superannu  • 
ated  countries  of  Europe.  It  is  really  astonishing  to  see  the 
number  of  tribunals  incessantly  springing  up  for  the  trial  of. 
literary  offences.  Independent  of  the  high  courts  of  Oyer  and 
Terminer,  the  great  quarterly  reviews,  we  have  innumerable 
minor  tribunals,  monthly  and  weekly,  down  to  the  Pie-poudre 
courts  in  the  daily  papers ;  insomuch  that  no  culprit  stands  so 
little  chance  of  escaping-  castigation,  as  an  unlucky  author, 
guilty  of  an  unsuccessful  attempt  to  please  the  public. 

Seriously  speaking,  however,  it  is  questionable  whether  our 
national  literature  is  sufficiently  advanced,  to  bear  this  excess 
of  criticism ;  and  whether  it  would  not  thrive  better,  if  allowed 
to  spring  up,  for  some  time  longer,  in  the  freshness  and  vigor 
of  native  vegetation.  When  the  worthy  Judge  Coulter,  of 
Virginia,  opened  court  for  the  first  time  in  one  of  the  upper 
counties,  he  was  for  enforcing  all  the  rules  and  regulations 
that  had  grown  into  use  in  the  old,  long-settled  counties. 
"This  is  all  very  well,"  said  a  shrewd  old  farmer:  ''but  let  me 
tell  yon,  Judge  Coulter,  you  set  your  coidter  too  deep  for  a 
new  soil." 

For  my  part,  I  doubt  whether  either  writer  or  reader  is 
benefited  by  what  is  commonly  called  criticism.  The  former 
is  rendered  cautious  and  distrustful ;  he  fears  to  give  way  to 
those  kindling  emotions,  and  brave  sallies  of  thought,  which 
bear  him  up  to  excellence;  the  latter  is  made  fastidious  and 
cynical;  or  rather,  he  surrenders  his  own  independent  taste 
and  judgment,  and  learns  to  like  and  dislike  at  second  hand. 

Let  us.  for  a  moment,  consider  the  nature  of  this  thing  called 
criticism,  which  exerts  such  a  sway  over  the  literary  world. 
The  pronoun  we,  used  by  critics,  has  a  most  imposing  and 
delusive  sound.  The  reader  pictures  to  himself  a  conclave  of 
learned  men,  deliberating  gravely  and  scrupulously  on  the 
merits  of  the  book  in  question;  examining  it  page  by  page, 
comparing  and  balancing  their  opinions,  and  when  they  have 
.united  in  a  conscientious  verdict,  publishing  it  for  the  benefit 
of  the  world:  when  as  fche  criticism  is  generally  the  crude  and 
hasty  production  of  an  individual,  scribbling  to  while  away  an 
idle  hour,  to  oblige  a  book-seller,  or  to  defray  current  expenses. 
How  often  is  it  the  passing  notion  of  the  hour,  affected  by 


76  WOLFEBTS   H06ST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 

accidental  circumstances;  by  indisposition,  by  peevishness,  by 
vapors  or  indigestion;  by  personal  prejudice,  or  party  feeling. 
Sometimes  a  work  is  sacrificed,  because  the  reviewer  wishes  a 
satirical  article;  sometimes  because  he  wants  a  humorous  one; 
and  sometimes  •  author  reviewed  has  become  offen- 

sively celebrated,  and  offers  high  game  to  the  literary  marks- 
man. 

How  often  would  the  critic  himself,  if  a  conscientious  man, 
reverse  his  opinion,  had  he  time  to  revise  it  in  a  more  sunny 
moment:  but  the  press  is  waiting,  the  printer's  devil  is  at 
his  elbow;  the  article  is  wanted  to  make  the  requisite  variety 
for  the  number  of  the  review,  or  the  author  has  pressing 
occasion  for  the  sum  he  is  to  receive  for  the  article,  so  it  is  sent 
off.  all  blotted  and  binned;  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders,  and 
the  consolatory  ejaculation:  "Pshaw!  curse  it!  it's  nothing 
but  a  review  !" 

The  critic,  too,  who  dictates  thus  oracularly  to  the  world,  is 
perhaps  some  dingy,  ill-favored,  ill-mannered  varlet,  who, 
were  he  to  speak  by  word  of  mouth,  would  be  disregarded,  if 
not  scoffed  at:  but  such  is  the  magic  of  types;  such  the  mystic 
i  of  anonymous  writing;  such  the  potential  effect  of 
the  pronoun  if.  t  rude  decisions,  fulminated  through 

the  ]  >me  circulated  far  and  wide,  control  the  opinions 

of  the  world,  and  give  or  destroy  reputation. 

Manx  readers  have  grown  timorous  in  their  judgments  since 
the  all-pervading  currency  of  criticism.  They  fear  to  express 
a  revised,  frank  opinion  about  any  new  work,  and  to  relish  it 
honestly  and  heartily,  lesl  i«  should  be  condemned  in  the  next 
review,  and  they  stand  convicted. of  bad  taste.  Hence  they 
hedge  their  opinions,  like  a  gambler  his  bets,  and  leave  an 
opening  to  retract,  and  retreat,  and  qualify,  and  neutralize 
every  unguarded  expression  of  delight,  until  their  very  praise 
66  into  a  faintness  that  is  damning. 

Were  every  one,  on  the  contrary,  to  judge  for  himself t  and 
speak  his  mind  frankly  and  fearlessly,  we  should  have  more 
true  criticism  in  the  world  than  at  present.  Whenever  a  per- 
son is  pleased  with  a  work,  he  may  be  assured  that  it  has  good 
qualities.  An  author  who  pleases  a  variety  of  readers,  must 
possess  substantial  powers  of  pleasing;  or,  in  other  words, 
intrinsic  merits ;  for  otherwise  we  acknowledge  an  effect,  and 
deny  the  cause.  The  reader,  therefore,  should  not  suffer  him- 
self to  be  readily  shaken  from  the  conviction  of  his  own  feelings, 
by  the  sweeping  censures  of  pseud  o  critics.     The  author  he  has 


DESULTORY  THOUGHTS  ON  CRITICISM.  77 

admired,  may  be  chargeable  with  a  thousand  faults;  but  it  is 
nevertheless  beauties  and  excellencies  that  have  excited  his 
admiration;  and  he  should  recollect  that  taste  and  judgment 
Lire  as  much  evinced  in  the  perception  of  beauties  among 
defects,  as  in  a  detection  of  defects  among  beauties.  For  my 
j  -  irt,  I  honor  the  blessed  and  blessing  spirit  that  is  quick  to  dis- 
ci )ver  and  extol  all  that  is  pleasing  and  meritorious.  Give  me 
the  honest  bee,  that  extracts  honey  from  the  humblest  weed, 
but  save  me  from  the  ingenuity  of  the  spider,  which  traces  its 
venom,  even  in  the  midst  of  a  flower-garden. 

If  the  mere  fact  of  being  chargeable  with  faults  and  imper- 
fections is  to  condemn  an  author,  who  is  to  escaped  The  great- 
est writers  of  antiquity  have,  in  this  way,  been  obnoxious  to 
criticism.  Aristotle  himself  has  been  accused  of  ignorance; 
Aristophanes  of  impiety  and  buffoonery ;  Virgil  of  plagiarism, 
and  a  want  of  invention ;  Horace  of  obscurity ;  Cicero  has  been 
said  to  want  vigor  and  .connexion,  and  Demosthenes  to  be 
deficient  in  nature,  and  in  purity  of  language.  Yet  these  have 
all  survived  the  censures  of  the  critic,  and  flourished  on  to  a 
glorious  immortality.  Every  now  and  then  the  world  is  startled 
by  some  new  doctrines  in  matters  of  taste,  some  levelling  attacks 
on  established  creeds ;  some  sweeping  denunciations  of  whole 
generations,  or  schools  of  writers,  as  they  are  called,  who  had 
seemed  to  be  embalmed  and  canonized  in  public  opinion.  Such 
has  been  the  case,  f^r  instance,  with  Pope,  and  Dryden,  and 
Addison,  who  for  a  time  have  almost  been  shaken  from  their 
pedestals,  and  treated  as  false  idols. 

It  is  singular,  also,  to  see  the  fickleness  of  the  world  with 
respect  to  its  favorites.  Enthusiasm  exhausts  itself,  and  pre- 
pares the  way  for  dislike.  The  public  is  always  for  positive 
sentiments,  and  new  sensations.  When  wearied  of  admiring,  it 
delights  to  censure ;  thus  coining  a  double  set  of  enjoyments  out 
of  the  same  subject.  Scott  and  Byron  are  scarce  cold  in  their 
graves,  and  already  we  find  criticism  beginning  to  call  in  ques 
tion  those  powers  which  held  the  world  in  magic  thraldom. 
Even  in  our  own  country,  one  of  its  greatest  geniuses  has  had 
some  rough  passages  with  the  censors  of  the  press ;  and  instant- 
ly criticism  begins  to  unsay  all  that  it  has  repeatedly  said  in 
his  praise ;  and  the  public  are  almost  led  to  believe  that  the  pen 
which  has  so  often  delighted  them,  is  absolutely  destitute  of  the 
power  to  delight ! 

If,  then,  such  reverses  in  opinion  as  to  matters  of  taste  can 
be  so  readilv  brought  about,  when  may  an  author  feel  himself 


78  WOLFERT&  UOOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 

secure?  Where  is  the  anchoring-ground  of  popularity,  when 
he  may  thus  be  driven  from  his  moorings,  and  foundered  even 
in  harbor?  The  reader,  too,  when  he  is  to  consider  himself 
safa  in  admiring,  when  he  sees  long-established  altars  over- 
thrown, and  his  household  deities  dashed  to  the  ground ! 

There  is  one  consolatory  reflection.  Every  abuse  carries  with 
it  its  own  remedy  or  palliation.  Thus  the  excess  of  crude  and 
1 1,1  sty  criticism,  which  has  of  late  prevailed  throughout  the 
1  literary  world,  and  threatened  to  overrun  our  country,  begins 
to  produce  its  own  antidote.  Where  there  is  a  multiplicity  of 
contradictory  paths,  a  man  must  make  his  choice ;  in  so  doing, 
he  has  to  exercise  his  judgment,  and  that  is  one  great  step  to 
mental  independence.  He  begins  to  doubt  all,  where  all  differ, 
and  but  one  can  be  in  the  right.  He  is  driven  to  trust  to  his 
own  discernment,  and  his  natural  feelings ;  and  here  he  is  most 
likely  to  be  safe.  The  author,  too,  finding  that  what  is  con- 
demned at  one  tribunal,  is  applauded  at  another,  though  per- 
plexed for  a  time,  gives  way  at  length  to  the  spontaneous 
impulse  of  liis  genius,  and  the  dictates  of  his  taste,  and  writes 
in  the  way  most  natural  to  himself.  It  is  thus  that  criticism, 
which  by  its  severity  may  have  held  the  little  world  of  writers 
in  check,  may,  by  its  very  excess,  disarm  itself  of  its  terrors, 
and  the  hardihood  of  talent  become  restored.  G.  C. 


SPANISH  ROMANCE. 

TO  THE  EDITOR  OF  THE  KNICKERBOCKER. 

Sir  :  I  have  alread y  given  you  a  legend  or  two  drawn  from 
ancient  Spanish  sources,  and  may  occasionally  give  you  a  few 
more.  I  love  these  old  Spanish  themes,  especially  when  they 
have  a  dash  of  the  Morisco  in  them,  and  treat  of  the  times 
when  the  Moslems  maintained  a  foot-hold  in  the  peninsula. 
They  have  a  high,  spicy,  oriental  flavor,  not  to  be  found  in  any 
other  themes  that  are  merely  European.  In  fact,  Spain  is  a 
country  that  stands  alone  in  the  midst  of  Europe ;  severed  in 
habits,  manners,  and  modes  of  thinking,  from  all  its  conti- 
nental neighbors.  It  is  a  romantic  country ;  but  its  romance 
has  none  of  the  sentimentality  of  modern  European  romance ; 
it  is  chiefly  derived  from  the  brilliant  regions  of  the  East,  and 
from  the  high-minded  school  of  Saracenic  chivalry. 


BPAiridB   ROMA&V&  79 

The  Arab  invasion  and  conquest  brought  a  higher  civilization 
and  a  nobler  style  of  thinking  into  Gothic  Spain.     The  Arabs 
were  a  quick-witted,   sagacious,   proud-spirited,   and  poetical 
people,  and  were  imbued  with  oriental  science  and  literature. 
Wherever  they  established  a  seat  of  power,  it  became  a  rally- 
ing place  lor  the  learned  and  ingenious ;  and  they  softened  and 
refined  the  people  whom  they  conquered.     By  degrees,  occu- 
pancy seemed  to  give  them  a  hereditary  right  to  their  foot- 
hold in  the  land ;  they  ceased  to  be  looked  upon  as  invaders, 
and  were  regarded  as  rival  neighbors.     The  peninsula.,  broken 
up  into  a  variety  of  states,  both  Christian  and  Moslem,  became 
for  centuries  a  great  campaigning  ground,  where  the  art  of  war 
seemed  to  be  the  principal  business  of  man,  and  was  carried  to 
the  highest  pitch  of  romantic  chivalry.     The  original  ground 
of  hostility,  a  difference  of  faith,   gradually  lost  its  rancor. 
Neighboring  states,  of  opposite  creeds,  were  occasionally  linked 
together  in  alliances,  offensive  and  defensive ;  so  that  the  cross 
and  crescent  were  to  be  seen  side  by  side  fighting  against  some 
common  enemy.     In  times  of  peace,  too,  the  noble  youth  of 
either  faith  resorted  to  the  same  cities,  Christian  or  Moslem,  to 
school  themselves  in  military  science.     Even  in  the  temporary 
truces  of  sanguinary  wars,   the  warriors  who  had  recently 
striven  together  in  the  deadly  conflicts  of  the  field,  laid  aside 
their  animosity,  met  at  tournaments,  jousts,  and  other  mili- 
tary festivities,  and  exchanged  the  courtesies  of  gentle  and 
generous  spirits.     Thus  the  opposite  races  became  frequently 
mingled  together  in  peaceful  intercourse,  or  if  any  rivalry  took 
place,  it  was  in  those  high  courtesies  and  nobler  acts  which  be- 
speak the  accomplished  cavalier.     "Warriors  of  opposite  creeds 
became  ambitious  of  transcending  each  other  in  magnanimity 
as  well  as  valor.     Indeed,  the  chivalric  virtues  were  refined 
upon  to  a  degree  sometimes  fastidious  and  constrained;  but  at 
other  times,  inexpressibly  noble  and  affecting.     The  annals  of 
the  times  teem  with  illustrious  instances  of    hight-wrought 
courtesy,   romantic    generosity,    lofty    disinterestedness,   and 
punctilious  honor,  that  warm  the  0*1  to  read  them. 

These  have  furnished  themes  for  national  plays  and  poems,  or 
have  been  celebrated  in  those  all-pervading  ballads  which  are 
as  the  life-breath  of  the  people,  and  thus  have  continued  to 
exercise  an  influence  on  the  national  character  which  centuries 
of  vicissitude  and  decline  have  not  been  able  to  destroy;  so 
that,  with  all  their  faults,  and  they  are  many,  the  Spaniards, 
even  at  the  present  .1  oh  many  points  the  most  high- 


80  WOLFERTS  BOOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 

minded  and  proud-spirited  people  of  Europe.  It  is  true,  the 
romance  of  feeling  derived  from  the  sources  I  have  mentioned, 
has,  like  all  other  romance,  its  affectations  and  extremes.  It 
renders  the  Spaniard  at  times  pompous  and  grandiloquent; 
prone  to  carry  the  "  pundonor,"  or  point  of  honor,  beyond  the 
bounds  of  sober  sense  and  sound  morality;  disposed,  in  the 
midst  of  poverty,  to  affect  the  "  grande  caballero,"  and  to  look 
down  with  sovereign  disdain  upon  "  arts  mechanical,"  and  all 
the  gainful  pursuits  of  plebeian  life ;  but  this  very  inflation  of 
spirit,  while  it  fills  his  brain  with  vapors,  lifts  him  above  a 
thousand  meannesses;  and  though  it  often  keeps  him  in  in- 
digence, ever  protects  him  from  vulgarity. 

In  the  present  day,  when  popular  literature  is  running  into 
the  low  levels  of  life  and  luxuriating  on  the  vices  and  follies  of 
mankind,  and  when  the  universal  pursuit  of  gain  is  trampling 
down  the  early  growth  of  poetic  feeling  and  wearing  out  the 
verdure  of  the  soul,  I  question  whether  it  would  not  be  of 
service  for  the  reader  occasionally  to  turn  to  these  records  of 
prouder  times  and  loftier  modes  of  thinking,  and  to  steep  him- 
self to  the  very  lips  in  old  Spanish  romance. 

For  my  own  part,  I  have  a  shelf  or  two  of  venerable,  parch- 
ment-bound tomes,  picked  up  here  and  there  about  the  pe- 
ninsula, and  filled  with  chronicles,  plays,  and  ballads,  about 
Moors  and  Christians,  which  I  keep  by  me  as  mental  tonics,  in 
the  same  way  that  a  provident  housewife  lias  her  cupboard 
of  cordials.  Whenever  I  find  my  mind  brought  below  par 
by  the  commonplace  of  every-day  life,  or  jarred  by  the  sordid 
collisions  of  the  world,  or  put  out  of  tune  by  the  shrewd 
selfishness  of  modern  utilitarianism,  I  resort  to  these  venerable 
tomes,  as  did  the  worthy  hero  of  La  Mancha  to  his  books  of 
chivalry,  and  refresh  and  tone  up  my  spirit  by  a  deep  draught 
of  their  contents.  They  have  some  such  effect  upon  me  as 
Falstaff  ascribes  to  a  good  Sherris  sack,  "warming  the  blood 
and  filling  the  brain  with  fiery  and  delectable  shapes." 

I  here  subjoin,  Mr.  Editor,  a  small  specimen  of  the  cordials  I 
have  mentioned,  just  drawn  from  my  Spanish  cupboard,  which 
I  recommend  to  your  palate.  If  you  find  it  to  your  taste,  you 
may  pass  it  on  to  your  readers. 

Your  correspondent  and  well-wisher, 

Geoffrey  Crayon. 


8PANISM    ROMANC&  81 

LEG^.sl)   OF  VOX  MUNIO  SANCHO  DE  HINOJOSA. 

BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF   THE   SKETCH-BOOK. 

In  the  cloisters  of  the  ancient  Benedictine  convent  of  San 
Domingo,  at  Silos,  in  Castile,  are  the  mouldering  yet  magni- 
ficent monuments  of  the  once  powerful  and  chivalrous  family 
of  Hinojosa.  Among  these,  reclines  the  marble  figure  of  a 
knight,  in  complete  armor,  with  the  hands  pressed  together,  as 
if  in  prayer.  On  one  side  of  his  tomb  is  sculptured  in  relief  a 
band  of  Christian  cavaliers,  capturing  a  cavalcade  of  male  and 
female  Moors ;  on  the  other  side,  the  same  cavaliers  are  repre- 
sented kneeling  before  an  altar.  The  tomb,  like  most  of  the 
neighboring  monuments,  is  almost  in  ruins,  and  the  sculpture 
is  nearly  unintelligible,  excepting  to  the  keen  eye  of  the  anti- 
quary. The  story  connected  with  the  sepulchre,  however,  is 
still  preserved  in  the  old  Spanish  chronicles,  and  is  to  the  fol- 
lowing purport. 


In  old  times,  several  hundred  years  ago,  there  was  a  noble 
Castiiian  cavalier,  named  Don  Munio  Sancho  de  Hinojosa,  lord 
of  a  border  castle,  winch  had  stood  the  brunt  of  many  a  Moor- 
ish foray.  He  had  seventy  horsemen  as  his  household  troops, 
all  of  the  ancient  Castiiian  proof ;  stark  warriors,  hard  riders, 
and  men  of  iron ;  with  these  he  scoured  the  Moorish  lands,  and 
made  his  name  terrible  throughout  the  borders.  His  castle 
hall  was  covered  with  banners,  and  scimetars,  and  Moslem 
helms,  the  trophies  of  his  prowess.  Don  Munio  was,  more- 
over, a  keen  huntsman;  and  rejoiced  in  hounds  of  all  kinds, 
steeds  for  the  chase,  and  hawks  for  the  towering  sport  of 
falconry.  When  not  engaged  in  warfare,  his  delight  was  to 
beat  up  the  neighboring  forests ;  and  scarcely  ever  did  he  ride 
forth,  without  hound  and  horn,  a  boar-spear  in  his  hand,  or 
a  hawk  upon  his  fist,  and  an  attendant  train  of  huntsmen. 

His  wife,  Donna  Maria  Palacin,  was  of  a  gentle  and  timid  na- 
ture, little  fitted  to  be  the  spouse  of  so  hardy  and  adventurous 
a  knight ;  and  many  a  tear  did  the  poor  lady  shed,  when  he 
sallied  forth  upon  his  daring  enterprises,  and  many  a  prayer 
did  she  offer  up  for  his  safety. 

As  this  doughty  cavalier  was  one  day  hunting,  he  stationed 
himself  in  a  thicket,  on  the_borders  of  a  green  glade  of  the 


82  WOLFERTS   ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 

forest,  and  dispersed  his  followers  to  rouse  the  game,  and 
drive  it  toward  his  stand.  He  had  not  been  here  long,  when  a 
cavalcade  of  Moors,  of  both  sexes,  came  prankhng  over  the 
forest  lawn.  They  were  unarmed,  and  magnificently  dressed 
in  robes  of  tissue  and  embroidery,  rich  shawls  of  India,  brace- 
lets and  anklets  of  gold,  and  jewels  that  sparkled  in  the  sun. 

At  the  head  of  this  gay  cavalcade,  rode  a  youthful  cavalier, 
superior  to  the  rest  in  dignity  and  loftiness  of  demeanor,  and 
in  splendor  of  attire;  beside  him  was  a  damsel,  whose  veil, 
blown  aside  by  the  breeze,  displayed  a  face  of  surpassing 
beauty,  and  eyes  cast  down  in  maiden  modesty,  yet  beaming 
with  tenderness  and  joy. 

Don  Munio  thanked  his  stars  for  sending  him  such  a  prize, 
and  exulted  at  the  thought  of  bearing  home  to  his  wife  the 
glittering  spoils  of  these  infidels.  Putting  his  hunting-horn  to 
his  lips,  he  gave  a  blast  that  rimg  through  the  forest.  His 
huntsmen  came  running  from  all  quarters,  and  the  astonished 
Moors  were  surrounded  and  made  captives. 

The  beautiful  Moor  wrung  her  hands  in  despair,  and  her 
female  attendants  uttered  the  most  piercing  cries.  The  young 
Moorish  cavalier  alone  retained  self-possession.  He  inquired 
the  name  of  the  Christian  knight,  who  commanded  this  troop 
of  horsemen.  When  told  that  it  was  Don  Munio  Sancho  de 
Hinojosa,  his  countenance  lighted  up.  Approaching  that 
cavalier,  and  kissing  his  hand,  ''Don  IVFunio  Sancho,"  said  he, 
"  I  have  heard  of  your  fame  as  a  true  and  valiant  knight,  ter- 
rible in  arms,  but  schooled  in  the  noble  virtues  of  chivalry. 
Such  do  I  trust  to  find  you.  In  me  you  behold  Abadil,  son  of 
a  Moorish  Alcayde.  I  am  on  the  way  to  celebrate  my  nuptials 
with  this  lady ;  chance  has  thrown  us  in  your  power,  but  I 
confide  in  your  magnanimity.  Take  all  our  treasure  and 
jewels;  demand  what  ransom  you  think  proper  for  our  per- 
sons, but  suffer  us  not  to  be  insulted  or  dishonored." 

When  the  good  knight  heard  this  appeal,  and  beheld  the 
beauty  of  the  youthful  pair,  his  heart  was  touched  with  ten- 
derness and  courtesy.  "<3k)d  forbid,"  said  he,  "that  I  should 
disturb  such  happy  nuptials.  My  prisoners  in  troth  shall  ye 
be,  for  fifteen  days,  and  immured  within  my  castle,  where  I 
claim,  as  conqueror,  the  right  of  celebrating  your  espousals." 

So  saying,  he  despatched  one  of  his  fleetest  horsemen  in 
advance,  to  notify  Donna  Maria  Palacin  of  the  coming  of  this 
bridal  party;  while  he  and  his  huntsmen  escorted  the  caval- 
cade, not  as  captors,  but  as  a  guard  of  honor.     As  they  drew 


NISU  nOAfAFOPl  83 

near-"  stle,  the  bann  ut,  and  ihe  trum 

from  thi  aents;  and  on  thi 

aw-bridge  wae  i  i  Maria  i 

forth  to  meet  them,  attended  by  h  and    kn; 

and  her  minstrels  ide,  Allii 

her  arms,  kissed  her  with  the  tend  sister,  and  con 

duel  ;d  her  into  the  castle.     In  the  moan  time,  Don  Muni 
forth  missives  in  every  direction,  and  had  viands  and  da 
of  all  kinds  collected  from  the  country  round;  and  the 
of  the  Moorish  lovers  was  celebrated  with  all  possible 
festivity.     For  fifteen  days,  the  castle  s  a  uptojoj 

revelry.     There  were  til  tings  and  jousts  at  1  i  bull- 

fights, and  banquets,  and  dances  to  the  sound  of  minstrelsy. 
When  the  fifteen  days  were  at  an  end,  he  made  the  bride  and 
bridegroom  magnificent  presents,  and  conducted  them  and 
their  attendants  safely  beyond  the  borders.  Such,  in  old 
times,  were  the  courtesy  and  generosity  of  a  Spanish  cava- 
lier. 

Several  years  after  this  event,  the  King  of  Castile  sum- 
moned his  nobles  to  assist  him  hi  a  campaign  against  the 
Moors.  Don  Munio  Sancho  was  among  the  first  to  answer  to 
the  call,  with  seventy  horsemen,  all  staunch  and  well-tried 
warriors.  His  wife,  Donna  Maria,  hung  about  his  neck. 
"Alas,  my  lord!"  exclaimed  she,  "  how  of ten  wilt  thou  tempt 
thy  fate,  and  when  will  thy  thirst  for  glory  be  appeased !" 

"  One  battle  more,"  replied  Don  Munio.  ''one  battle  more,  for 
the  honor  of  Castile,  and  I  here  make  a  vow,  that  when  this  is 
I  will  lay  by  my  sword,  and  repair  with  my  cavaliers  in 
pilgrimage  to  the  sepulchre  of  our  Lord  at  Jerusalem. "  The 
cavaliers  all  joined  with  him  in  the  vow.  and  Donna  Maria  felt 
in  some  degree  soothed  in  spirit :  still,  she  saw  with  a  heavy 
heart  the  departure  of  her  husband,  and  watched  his  banner 
with  wistful  eyes,  until  it  disappeared  among  the  trees  of  the 
forest: 

The  King  of  Castile  led  Ins  army  to  the  plains  of  Almanara. 
where  they  <ncountered  the  Moorish  host,  near  to  Ucles.  The 
battle  was  long  and  bloody;  the  Christians  repeatedly  wavered. 
and  were  as  often  rallied  by  the  energy  of  their  commanders. 
Don  Munio  was  covered  with  wounds,  but  refused  to  leave  the 
field.  The  Christians  at  length  gave  way.  and  the  king  was 
hardly  pressed,  and  in  danger  of  being  captured. 

Don  Munio  called  upon  his  cavaliers  to  follow  him  to  the 
rescue.     "  Now  is  the  time,"  cried  he,  "to  prove  your  loyalty, 


84  WOLFERTS  ROOST  A&1)  MI&CELLAMttS. 

Fall  to,  like  brave  men!    Wo  tight  for  the  true  faith,  and  if  we 
lose  our  lives  here,  we  gain  a  better  life  hereafter." 

Rushing  with  his  men  between  the  king  and  his  pursuers, 
they  checked  the  latter  in  their  career,  and  gave  time  for  their 
monarch  to  escape;  but  they  fell  victims  to  their  loyalty. 
They  all  fought  to  the  last  gasp.  Don  Munio  was  singled  out 
by  a  powerful  Moorish  knight,  but  having  been  wounded  in 
the  right  arm,  he  fought  to  disadvantage,  and  was  slain.  The 
battle  being  over,  the  Moor  paused  to  possess  himself  of  the 
spoils  of  this  redoubtable  Christian  warrior.  When  he  unlaced 
the  helmet,  however,  and  beheld  the  countenance  of  Don 
Munio,  he  gave  a  great  cry,  and  smote  his  breast.  ' '  Wo  is 
me!"  cried  he;  "I  have  slain  my  benefactor!  The  flower  of 
knightly  virtue!  the  most  magnanimous  of  cavaliers!" 


While  the  battle  had  been  raging  on  the  plain  of  Salmanara, 
Donna  Maria  Palacin  remained  in  her  castle,  a  prey  to  the 
keenest  anxiety.  Her  eyes  were  ever  fixed  on  the.  road  that 
led  from  the  country  of  the  Moors,  and  often  she  asked  the 
watchman  of  the  tower.  "What  seest  thou?" 

One  evening,  at  the  shadowy  hour  of  twilight,  the  warden 
sounded  his  horn.  "  I  see,"  cried  he,  "  a  numerous  train  wind- 
ing up  the  valley.  There  are  mingled  Moors  and  Christians. 
The  banner  of  my  lord  is  in  the  advance.  Joyful  tidings!"  ex- 
claimed the  old  seneschal :  ' '  my  lord  returns  in  triumph,  and 
brings  captives !"  Then  the  castle  courts  rang  with  shouts  of 
joy;  and  the  standard  was  displayed,  and  the  trumpets  were 
sounded,  and  the  draw-bridge  was  lowered,  and  Donna  Maria 
went  forth  with  her  ladies,  and  her  knights,  and  her  pages, 
and  her  minstrels,  to  welcome  her  lord  from  the  wars.  But  as 
the  train  drew  nigh,  she  beheld  a  sumptuous  bier,  covered  with 
black  velvet,  and  on  it  lay  a  warrior,  as  if  taking  his  repose: 
he  lay  in  his  r.rmor,  with  his  helmet  on  his  head,  and  his 
sword  in  his  hand,  as  one  who  had  never  been  conquered,  and 
around  the  bier  were  the  escutcheons  of  the  house  of  Hinojosa. 

A  number  of  Moorish  cavaliers  attended  the  bier,  with  em- 
blems of  mourning,  and  with  dejected  countenances:  and  their 
leader  cast  himself  at  the  feet  of  Donna  Maria,  and  hid  his  face 
in  his  hands.  She  beheld  in  him  the  gallant  Abadil,  whom  she 
had  once  welcomed  with  his  bride  to  her  castle,  but  who  now 
came  with  the  body  of  her  lord,  whom  he  had  unknowingly 
slain  in  battle ! 


SPANISH  ROMANCE.  85 

The  sepulchre  erected  in  the  cloisters  of  the  Convent  of  San 
Domingo  was  achieved  at  the  expense  of  the  Moor  Abadil,  as 
a  feeble  testimony  of  his  grief  for  the  death  of  the  good  knight 
Don  Munio,  and  his  reverence  for  his  memory.  The  tender 
and  faithful  Donna  Maria  soon  followed  her  lord  to  the  tomb. 
On  one  of  the  stones  of  a  small  arch,  beside  his  sepulchre,  is 
the  following  simple  inscription :  ' '  Hie  jacet  Maria  Palacin, 
uxor  Munonis  Sancij  de  Finojosa :"  Here  lies  Maria  Palacin, 
wife  of  Munio  Sancho  de  Hinojosa. 

The  legend  of  Don  Munio  Sancho  does  not  conclude  with  his 
death.  On  the  same  day  on  which  the  battle  took  place  on  the 
plain  of  Salmanara,  a  chaplain  of  the  Holy  Temple  at  Jerusa- 
lem, while  standing  at  the  outer  gate,  beheld  a  train  of  Chris- 
tian cavaliers  advancing,  as  if  in  pilgrimage.  The  chaplain 
was  a  native  of  Spain,  and  as  the  pilgrims  approached,  he 
knew  the  foremost  to  be  Don  Munio  Sancho  de  Hinojosa,  with 
whom  he  had  been  well  acquainted  in  former  times.  Hasten- 
ing to  the  patriarch,  he  told  him  of  the  honorable  rank  of  the 
pilgrims  at  the  gate.  The  patriarch,  therefore,  went  forth 
with  a  grand  procession  of  priests  and  monks,  and  received 
the  pilgrims  with  all  due  honor.  There  were  seventy  cava- 
liers, beside  their  leader,  all  stark  and  lofty  warriors.  They 
carried  their  helmets  in  their  hands,  and  their  faces  were 
deadly  pale.  They  greeted  no  one,  nor  looked  either  to  the 
right  or  to  the  left,  but  entered  the  chapel,  and  kneeling  be- 
fore the  Sepulchre  of  our  Saviour,  performed  their  orisons  in 
silence.  When  they  had  concluded,  they  rose  as  if  to  depart, 
and  the  patriarch  and  his  attendants  advanced  to  speak  to 
them,  but  they  were  no  more  to  be  seen.  Every  one  mar- 
velled what  could  be  the  meaning  of  this  prodigy.  The  patri- 
arch carefully  noted  down  the  day,  and  sent  to  Castile  to  learn 
tidings  of  Don  Munio  Sancho  de  Hinojosa,  He  received  for 
reply,  that  on  the  very  day  specified,  that  worthy  knight,  with 
seventy  of.  his  followers,  had  been  slain  in  battle.  These, 
therefore,  must  have  been  the  blessed  spirits  of  those  Chris- 
tian warriors,  come  to  fulfil  their  vow  of  a  pilgrimage  to  the 
Holy  Sepulchre  at  Jerusalem.  Such  was  Caslilian  faith,  in 
the  olden  time,  which  kept  its  word,  even  beyond  the  grave. 

If  any  one  should  doubt  of  the  miraculous  apparition  of 
these  phantom  knights,  let  him  consult  the  History  of  the 
Kings  of  Castile  and  Leon,  by  the  learned  and  pious  Fray 
Prudencio  de  Sandoval,  Bishop  of  Pamplona,  where  he  will 
find  it  recorded  in  the  History  of  the  King  Don  Alonzo  VI.,  on 


86  WOLFERTS  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 

the  hundred  and  second  page.    It  is  too  precious  a  legend  to 
be  lightly  abandoned  to  the  doubter. 


COMMUNIPAW. 

TO  THE  EDITOR  OF  THE  KNICKERBOCKER. 

Sir  :  I  observe,  with  pleasure,  that  you  are  performing  from 
time  to  time  a  pious  duty,  imposed  upon  you,  I  may  say,  by 
the  name  you  have  adopted  as  your  titular  standard,  in  fol- 
lowing in  the  footsteps  of  the  venerable  Knickerbocker,  and 
gleaning  every  fact  concerning  the  early  times  of  the  Manhat- 
toes  which  may  have  escaped  his  hand.  I  trust,  therefore,  a 
few  particulars,  legendary  and  statistical,  concerning  a  place 
which  figures  conspicuously  in  the  early  pages  of  his  history, 
will  not  be  unacceptable.  I  allude,  Sir,  to  the  ancient  and 
renowned  village  of  Communipaw,  which,  according  to  the 
veracious  Diedrich,  and  to  equally  veracious  tradition,  was 
the  first  spot  where  our  ever-to-be-lamented  Dutch  progeni- 
tors planted  their  standard  and  cast  the  seeds  of  empire,  and 
from  whence  subsequently  sailed  the  memorable  expedition 
under  Oloffe  the  Dreamer,  which  landed  on  the  opposite  island 
of  Manhatta,  and  founded  the  present  city  of  New- York,  the 
city  of  dreams  and  speculations. 

Communipaw,  therefore,  may  truly  be  called  the  parent  of 
New-York ;  yet  it  is  an  astonishing  fact,  that  though  immedi- 
ately opposite  to  the  great  cijby  it  has  produced,  from  whence 
its  red  roofs  and  tin  weather-cocks  can  actually  be  descried 
peering  above  the  surrounding  apple  orchards,  it  should  be 
almost  as  rarely  visited,  and  as  little  known  by  the  inhabi- 
tants of  the  metropolis,  as  if  it  had  been  locked  up  among  the 
Rocky  Mountains.  Sir,  I  think  there  is  something  unnaturnl 
in  this,  especially  in  these  times  of  ramble  and  research,  when 
our  citizens  are  antiquity -hunting  in  every  part  of  the  world. 
Curiosity,  like  charity,  should  begin  at  home;  and  I  would 
enjoin  it  on  our  worthy  burghers,  especially  those  of  the  real 
Knickerbocker  breed,  before  they  send  their  sons  abroad  to 
wonder  and  grow  wise  among  the  remains  of  Greece  and 
Rome,  to  let  them  make  a  tour  of  ancient  Pavonia,  from  Wee- 
hawk  even  to  the  Kills,  and  meditate,  with  filial  reverence,  on 
the  moss-e:rown  mansions  of  Communipaw. 


COMMUXIPAW.  87 

Sirr  I  regard  this  much-neglected  village  as  one  of  tiie  most 
remarkable  places  in  the  country.  The  intelligent  traveller, 
as  he  looks  down  upon  it  from  the  Bergen  Heights,  modestly 
nestled  among  its  cabbage-gardens,  while  the  great  flaunting 
city  it  has  begotten  is  stretching  far  and  wide  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  bay,  the  intelligent  traveller,  I  say,  will  be  filled  with 
astonishment ;  not,  Sir,  at  the  village  of  Communipaw,  which 
in  truth  is  a  very  small  village,  but  at  the  almost  incredible 
fact  that  so  small  a  village  should  have  produced  so  great  a 
city.  It  looks  to  him,  indeed,  like  some  squat  little  dame, 
with  a  tall  grenadier  of  a  son  strutting  by  her  side ;  or  some 
simple-hearted  hen  that  has  unwittingly  hatched  out  a  long- 
legged  turkey. 

But  this  is  not  all  for  which  Communipaw  is  remarkable. 
Sir,  it  is  interesting  on  another  account.  It  is  to  the  ancient 
province  of  the  New-Netherlands  and  the  classic  era  of  the 
Dutch  dynasty,  what  Herculaneum  and  Pompeii  are  to  an- 
cient Rome  and  the  glorious  days  of  the  empire.  Here  every 
thing  remains  in  statu  quo,  as  it  was  in  the  days  of  Oloffe  the 
Dreamer,  Walter  the  Doubter,  and  the  other  worthies  of  the 
golden  age ;  the  same  broad-brimmed  hats  and  broad-bottomed 
breeches;  the  same  knee-buckles  and  shoe-buckles;  the  same 
close-quilled  caps  and  linsey-woolsey  short-gowns  and  petti- 
coats ;  the  same  implements  and  utensils  and  forms  and  fash- 
ions; in  a  word,  Communipaw  at  the  present  day  is  a  picture 
of  what  New- Amsterdam  was  before  the  conquest.  The  "in- 
telligent traveller"  aforesaid,  as  he  treads  its  streets,  is  struck 
with  the  primitive  character  of  every  thing  around  him.  In- 
stead of  Grecian  temples  for  dwelling-houses,  with  a  great 
column  of  pine  boards  in  the  way  of  every  window,  he  beholds 
high  peaked  roofs,  gable  ends  to  the  street,  witli  weather-cocks 
at  top,  and  windows  of  all  sorts  and  sizes ;  large  ones  for  the 
grown-up  members  of  the  family,  and  little  ones  for  the  little 
folk.  Instead  of  cold  marble  porches,  with  close-locked  doors 
and  brass  knockers,  he  sees  the  doors  hospitably  open;  the 
worthy  burgher  smoking  his  pipe  on  the  old-fashioned  stoop 
in  front,  with  his  "vrouw"  knitting  beside  him;  and  the  cat 
and  her  kittens  at  their  feet  sleeping  in  the  sunshine. 

Astonished  at  the  obsolete  and  "  old  world  "  air  of  every  thing 
around  him,  the  intelligent  traveller  demands  how  all  this  has 
come  to  pass.  Herculaneum  and  Pompeii  remain,  it  is  true, 
unaffected  by  the  varying  fashions  of  centuries;  hut  they  were 
buried  by  a  volcano  and  preserved  in  ashes.    Whal  charmed 


88         .    WOLFE RTS  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIE. 

spell  has  kept  this  wonderful  little  place  unchanged,  though  in 
sight  of  the  most  changeful  city  in  the  universe  ?  Has  it,  too, 
been  buried  under  its  cabbage-gardens,  and  only  dug  out  in 
modern  days  for  the  wonder  and  edification  of  the  world .;  The 
reply  involves  a  point  of  history,  worthy  of  notice  and  record, 
and  reflecting  immortal  honor  on  Communipaw. 

At  the  time  when  New- Amsterdam  was  invaded  and  con- 
quered by  British  foes,  as  has  been  related  in  the  history  of  the 
venerable  Diedrich,  a  great  dispersion  took  place  among  the 
Dutch  inhabitants.  Many,  like  the  illustrious  Peter  Stuyves- 
ant,  buried  themselves  in  rural  retreats  in  the  Bowerie ;  others, 
like  Wolfert  Acker,  took  refuge  in  various  remote  parts  of  the 
Hudson ;  but  there  was  one  staunch,  unconquerable  band  that 
determined  to  keep  together,  and  preserve  themselves,  like 
seed  corn,  for  the  future  fructification  and  perpetuity  of  the 
Knickerbocker  race.  These  were  headed  by  one  Garret  Van 
Home,  a  gigantic  Dutchman,  the  Pelayo  of  the  New-Nether- 
lands. Under  his  guidance,  they  retreated  across  the  bay  and 
buried  themselves  among  the  marshes  of  ancient  Pavonia,  as 
did  the  follower^  of  Pelayo  among  the  mountains  of  Asturias, 
when  Spain  was  overrun  by  its  Arabian  invaders. 

The  gallant  Van  Home  set  up  his  standard  at  Communipaw, 
and  invited  all  those  to  rally  under  it,  who  were  true  Neder- 
landers  at  heart,  and  determined  to  resist  all  foreign  intermix- 
ture or  encroachment.  A  strict  non-intercourse  was  observed 
with  the  captured  city;  not  a  boat  ever  crossed  to  it  from 
Communipaw.  and  the  English  language  was  rigor ously  tabooed 
throughout  the  village  and  its  dependencies.  Every  man  was 
sworn  to  wear  his  hat,  cut  his  coat,  build  his  house,  and  har- 
ness his  horses,  exactly  as  his  father  had  done  before  him;  and 
to  permit  nothing  but  the  Dutch  language  to  be  spoken  in  his 
household. 

As  a  citadel  of  the  place,  and  a  strong-hold  for  the  preserva- 
tion and  defence  of  every  thing  Dutch,  the  gallant  Van  Home 
erected  a  lordly  mansion,  with  a  chimney  perched  at  every 
corner,  which  thence  derived  the  aristocratical  name  of  "The 
House  of  the  Four  Chimneys. "  Hither  he  transferred  many  of 
the  precious  reliques  of  New- Amsterdam ;  the  great  round- 
crowned  hat  that  once  covered  the  capacious  head  of  Wal- 
ter the  Doubter,  and  the  identical  shoe  with  which  Peter  the 
Headstrong  kicked  his  pusillanimous  councillors  down-stairs. 
St.  Nicholas,  it  is  said,  took  this  loyal  house  under  his  especial 
protection ;  and  a  Dutch  soothsayer  predicted,  that  as  long  as 


COMMVNIPA  il  89 

it  should  stand,  Communipa'V  would  be  safe  from  the  intrusion 
either  of  Briton  or  Yankee. 

In  this  house  would  the  gallant  Van  Home  and  Iris  compeers 
hold  frequent  councils  of  war,  as  to  the  possibility  of  re-conquer- 
ing the  province  from  the  British ;  and  here  would  they  sit 
for  hours,  nay,  days,  together  smoking  their  pipes  and  keeping 
watch  upon  the  growing  city  of  New-York;  groaning  in  spirit 
whenever  they  saw  a  new  house  erected  or  ship  launched,  and 
persuading  themselves  that  Admiral  Van  Tromp  would  one  day 
or  other  arrive  to  sweep  out  the  invaders  with  the  broom  which 
he  carried  at  his  mast-head. 

Years  rolled  by,  but  Van  Tromp  never  arrived.  The  British 
strengthened  themselves  in  the  land,  and  the  captured  city 
nourished  under  their  domination.  Still,  the  worthies  of  Com- 
munipaw  would  not  despair;  something  or  other,  they  were 
sure,  would  turn  up  to  restore  the  power  of  the  Hogen  Mogens, 
the  Lord  States-General ;  so  they  kept  smoking  and  smoking, 
and  watching  and  watching,  and  turning  the  same  few  thoughts 
over  and  over  in  a  perpetual  circle,  which  is  commonly  called 
deliberating.  In  the  mean  time,  being  hemmed  up  within  a 
narrow  compass,  between  the  broad  bay  and  the  Bergen  hills, 
they  grew  poorer  and  poorer,  until  they  had  scarce  the  where- 
withal to  maintain  their  pipes  in  fuel  during  their  endless 
deliberations. 

And  now  must  I  relate  a  circumstance  which  will  call  for  a  little 
exertion  of  faith  on  the  part  of  the  reader;  but  I  can  onl. 
that  if  he  doubts  it,  he  had  better  not  utter  his  doubts  in  Com- 
munipaw,  as  it  is  among  the  religious  beliefs  of  the  place.  It  is, 
in  fact,  nothing  more  nor  less  than  a  miracle,  worked  by  the 
blessed  St.  Nicholas,  for  the  relief  and  sustenance  of  this  loyal 
community. 

It  so  happened,  in  this  time  of  extremity,  that  in  the  course 
of  cleaning  the  House  of  the  Four  Chimneys,  by  an  ignorant 
housewife  who  knew  nothing  of  the  historic  value  of  the  rel- 
iques  it  contained,  the  old  hat  of  Walter  the  Doubter  and  the 
executive  shoe  of  Peter  the  Headstrong  were  thrown  out  of 
doors  as  rubbish.  But  mark  the  consequence.  The  good  St. 
Nicholas  kept  watch  over  these  precious  reliques,  and  wrought 
out  of  them  a  wonderful  provide] 

The  hat  of  Walter  the  Doubter  falling  on  a  stercoraceous 
heap  of  compost,  in  the  rear  of  the  house,  began  forthwith  to 
vegetate.  Its  broad  brim  spread  forth  grandly  and  exfoliated, 
and  its  round  crown  swelled  and  crimped  and  consolidated 


<»<»  WOLFER'i  /•  AND   MlSCELLANlKS. 

until  the  whole  became  a  prodigious  cabbage,  rivalling  in  mag' 
nitude  the  capacious  head  of  the  Doubter.  In  a  word,  it  was 
the  origin  of  that  renowned  species  of  cabbage  known,  by  ah 
Dutch  epicures,  by  the  name  of  the  Governor's  Head,  and 
which  is  to  this  day  the  glory  of  Communipaw. 

On  the  other* hand,  the  shoe  of  Peter  Stuyvesant  being  thrown 
the  river,  in  front  of  the  house,  gradually  hardened  and 
concreted,  and  became  covered  with  barnacles,  and  at  length 
turned  into  a  gigantic  oyster;  being  the  progenitor  of  that  illus- 
trious species  known  throughout  the  gastronomical  world  by 
the  name  of  the  Governor's  Foot. 

These  miracles  were  the  salvation  of  Communipaw.  The 
sages  of  the  place  immediately  saw  in  them  the  hand  of  St. 
Nicholas,  and  understood  their  mystic  signification.  They  set 
to  work  with  all  diligence  to  cultivate  and  multiply  these  great 
and  so  abundantly  did  the  gubernatorial  hat  and 
fructify  and  increase,  that  in  a  little  time  great  patches  of 
cabbages  were  to  be  seen  extending  from  the  village  of  Com- 
munipaw quite  to  the  Bergen  Hills ;  while  the  whole  bottom  of 
the  bay  in  front  became  a  vast  bed  of  oysters.  Ever  since  that 
time  this  excellent  community  has  been  divided  into  two  great 
classes :  those  who  cultivate  the  land  and  those  who  cultivate  the 
water.  The  former  have  devoted  themselves  to  the  nurture 
and  edification  of  cabbages,  rearing  them  in  all  their  varieties; 
while  the  latter  have  formed  parks  and  plantations,  under 
water,  to  which  juvenile  oysters  are  transplanted  from  foi 
parts,  to  finish  their  education. 

As  these  great  sources  of  profit  multiplied  upon  their  hands, 
the  worthy  inhabitants  of  Communipaw  began  to  long  for  a 
market  at  which  to  dispose  of  their  superabundance.  This 
gradually  produced  once  more  an  intercourse  with  New- York; 
but  it  was  always  carried  on  by  the  old  people  and  the  negroes; 
never  would  they  permit  the  young  folks,  of  either  sex,  to  visit 
the  city,  lest  they  should  get  tainted  with  foreign  manners  and 
bring  home  foreign  fashions.  Even  to  this  day,  if  you  see  an 
old  burgher  in  the  market,  with  hat  and  garb  of  antique  Dutch 
fashion,  you  may  be  sure  he  is  one  of  the  old  unconquered  race 
of  the  "  bitter  blood,"  who  maintain  their  strong-hold  at  Com- 
munipaw. 

In  modern  days,  the  hereditary  bitterness  against  the  English 
has  lost  much  of  its  asperity,  or  rather  has  become  merged  in 
a  new  source  of  jealousy  and  apprehension :  I  allude  to  the  inces- 
sant and  wide-spreading  irruptions  from  New-England.    Word 


COMMUNIPAW.  91 

has  been  continually  brought  back  to  Communipaw,  by  thoso 
of  the  connnunity  who  return  from  their  trading  voyages  in 
cabbages  and  oysters,  of  the  alarming  power  which  the  Yan- 
kees are  gaining  in  the  ancient  city  of  New -Amsterdam ;  elbow- 
ing the  genuine  Knickerbockers  out  of  all  civic  posts  of  honor 
and  profit;  bargaining  them  out  of  their  hereditary  home- 
steads; pulling  down  the  venerable  houses,  with  crow-step 
gables,  which  have  stood  since  the  time  of  the  Dutch  rule, 
and  erecting,  instead,  granite  stores,  and  marble  banks;  in 
a  word,  evincing  a  deadly  determination  to  obliterate  every 
vestige  of  the  good  old  Dutch  times. 

In  consequence  of  the  jealousy  thus  awakened,  the  worthy 
traders  from  Communipaw  confine  their  dealings,  as  much  as 
possible,  to  the  genuine  Dutch  families.  If  they  furnish  the 
Yankees  at  all,  it  is  with  inf erior  articles.  Never  can  the  latter 
procure  a  real  ' '  Governor's  Head, "  or  "  Governor's  Foot, " 
though  they  have  offered  extravagant  prices  for  the  same, 
to  grace  then*  table  on  the  annual  festival  of  the  New-England 
Society. 

But  what  has  carried  this  hostility  to  the  Yankees  to  the 
highest  pitch,  was  an  attempt  made  by  that  all-pervading  race 
to  get  possession  of  Communipaw  itself.  Yes,  Sir ;  dming  the 
late  mania  for  land  speculation,  a  daring  company  of  Yankee 
projectors  landed  before  the  village ;  stopped  the  honest  burgh- 
ers on  the  public  highway,  and  endeavored  to  bargain  them 
out  of  their  hereditary  acres ;  displayed  lithographic  maps,  in 
which  their  cabbage-gardens  were  laid  out  into  town  lots ;  their 
oyster-parks  into  docks  and  quays ;  and  even  the  House  of  the 
Four  Chimneys  metamorphosed  into  a  bank,  which  was  to 
enrich  the  whole  neighborhood  with  paper  money. 

Fortunately,  the  gallant  Van  Homes  came  to  the  rescue,  just 
as  some  of  the  worthy  burghers  were  on  the  point  of  capitulat- 
ing. The  Yankees  were  put  to  the  rout,  with  signal  confusion, 
and  have  never  since  dared  to  show  their  faces  in  the  place. 
The  good  people  continue  to  cultivate  their  cabbages,  and  rear 
heir  oysters ;  they  know  nothing  of  banks,  nor  joint  stock  com- 
panies,  but  treasure  up  their  money  in  stocking-feet,  at  the 
bottom  of  the  family  chest,  or  bury  it  in  iron  pots,  as  did  their 
fathers  and  grandfathers  before  them. 

As  to  the  House  of  the  Four  Chimneys,  it  still  remains  in  the 
great  and  tall  family  of  the  Van  Homes.  Here  are  to  be  seen 
ancient  Dutch  corner  cupboards,  chests  of  drawers,  and  mas- 
tive  clothe- -i >'■"-. >s.  quaint  '.  <""1(i  carefully  waxed  and 


92  WOLFERTS  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 

polished ;  together  with  divers  thick,  black-letter  volumes,  with 
brass  clasps,  printed  of  yore  in  Leyden  and  Amsterdam,  and 
handed  down  from  generation  to  generation,  in  the  family,  but 
never  read.  They  are  preserved  in  the  archives,  among  sun- 
dry old  parchment  deeds,  in  Dutch  and  English,  bearing  the 
seals  of  the  early  governors  of  the  province. 

In  this  house,  the  primitive  Dutch  holidays  of  Paas  and 
Pinxter  are  faithfully  kept  up ;  and  New- Year  celebrated  Avith 
cookies  and  cherry -bounce ;  nor  is  the  festival  of  the  blessed 
St.  Nicholas  forgotten,  when  all  the  children  are  sure  to  hang 
up  their  stockings,  and  to  have  them  filled  according  to  their 
deserts;  though,  it  is  said,  the  good  saint  is  occasionally  per- 
plexed in  his  nocturnal  visits,  which  chimney  to  descend. 

Of  late,  this  portentous  mansion  has  begun  to  give  signs  of 
dilapidation  and  decay.  Some  have  attributed  this  to  the 
visits  made  by  the  young  people  to  the  city,  .and  their  bringing 
thence  various  modern  fashions;  and  to  their  neglect  of  the 
Dutch  language  which  is  gradually  becoming  confined  to  the 
older  persons  in  the  community.  The  house,  too,  was  greatly 
shaken  by  high  winds,  during  the  prevalence  of  the  speculation 
mania,  especially  at  the  time  of  the  landing  of  the  Yankees. 
Seeing  how  mysteriously  the  fate  of  Communipaw  is  identified 
with  this  venerable  mansion,  we  cannot  wonder  that  the  older 
and  wiser  heads  of  the  community  should  be  filled  with  dismay, 
whenever  a  brick  is  toppled  down  from  one  of  the  chimneys,  or 
a  weather-cock  is  blown  off  from  a  gable-end. 

The  present  lord  of  this  historic  pile,  I  am  happy  to  say,  is 
calculated  to  maintain  it  in  all  its  integrity.  He  is  of  patri- 
archal age,  and  is  worthy  of  the  days  of  the  patriarchs.  He 
has  done  his  utmost  to  increase  and  multiply  the  true  race  in 
the  land.  His  wife  has  not  been  inferior  to  him  in  zeal,  and 
they  are  surrounded  by  a  goodly  progeny  of  children,  and 
grand-children,  and  great-grand-children,  who  promise  th  per- 
petuate the  name  of  Van  Home,  until  time  shall  be  no  more. 
So  be  it !  Long  may  the  horn  of  the  Van  Homes  continue  to 
be  exalted  in  the  land !  Tall  as  they  are,  may  their  shadows 
never  be  less !  May  the  House  of  the  Four  Chimneys  remain 
for  ages,  the  citadel  of  Communipaw,  and  the  smoke  of  its 
chimneys  continue  to  ascend,  a  sweet-smelling  incense  in  the 
nose  of  St.  Nicholas ! 

With  great  respect,  Mr.  Editor, 

Your  ob't  servant, 

Hermanus  Vanderdonk. 


(JONSPIUACY   OF  THE  COCKED  HATS.  9y 

CONSPIRACY  OF  THE  COCKED  HATS. 

TO  THE  EDITOR  OF  THE  KNICKERBOCKER. 

{^tr:  I  have  read  with  great  satisfaction  the  valuable  paper 
&f  your  correspondent,  Mr.  Hermanus  Vanderdonk,  (who,  I 
take  it,  is  a  descendant  of  the  learned  Adrian  Vanderdonk,  one 
of  the  early  historians  of  the  Nieuw-Nederlands,)  giving  sundry 
particulars,  legendary  and  statistical,  touching  the  venerable 
village  of  Comimmipaw  and  its  fate-bound  citadel,  the  House 
of  the  Four  Chimneys.  It  goes  to  prove  what  I  have  repeatedly 
maintained,  that  we  live  in  the  midst  of  history  and  mystery 
and  romance ;  and  that  there  is  no  spot  in  the  world  more  rich 
in  themes  for  the  writer  of  historic  novels,  heroic  melodramas, 
and  rough-shod  epics,  than  this  same  business-looking  city  of 
the  Manhattoes  and  its  environs.  He  who  would  find  these 
elements,  however,  must  not  seek  them  among  the  modern 
improvements  and  modern  people  of  this  moneyed  metropolis, 
but  must  dig  for  them,  as  for  Kidd  the  pirate's  treasures,  in 
out-of-the-way  places,  and  among  the  ruins  of  the  past. 

Poetry  and  romance  received  a  fatal  blow  at  the  overthrow  of 
the  ancient  Dutch  dynasty,  and  have  ever  since  been  gradually 
withering  under  the  growing  domination  of  the  Yankees.  They 
abandoned  our  hearths  when  the  old  Dutch  tiles  were  super- 
seded by  marble  chimney-pieces ;  when  brass  andirons  made 
way  for  polished  grates,  and  the  crackling  and  blazing  fire  of 
nut-wood  gave  place  to  the  smoke  and  stench  of  Liverpool 
coal;  and  on  the  downfall  of  the  last  gable-end  house,  their 
requiem  was  tolled  from  the  tower  of  the  Dutch  church  in 
Nassau-street  by  the  old  bell  that  came  from  Holland.  But 
poetry  and  romance  still  live  unseen  among  us,  or  seen  only  by 
the  enlightened  few,  who  are  able  to  contemplate  this  city  and 
its  environs  through  the  medium  of  tradition,  and  clothed  with 
the  associations  of  foregone  ages. 

Would  you  seek  these  elements  in  the  country,  Mr.  Editor, 
avoid  all  turnpikes,  rail-roads,  and  steamboats,  those  abomina- 
ble inventions  by  which  the  usurping  Yankees  are  strengthen- 
ing themselves  in  the  land,  and  subduing  every  thing  to  utility 
and  common-place.  Avoid  all  towns  and  cities  of  white  clap- 
board palaces  and  Grecian  temples,  studded  with  "  Acadei  1 1 
" Seminaries, "  and  "Institutes, "which  glisten  along  our  bays 


±  WOLFERTS  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 

and  rivers ;  these  are  the  strong-holds  of  Yankee  usurpation  - 
but  if  haply  you  light  upon  some  rough,  rambling  road,  wind- 
ing between  stone  fences,  gray  with  moss,  and  overgrown  with 
elder,  poke-berry,  mullein,  and  sweet-briar,  with  here  and 
there  a  low,  red-roofed,  whitewashed  farm-house,  cowering 
among  apple  and  cherry  trees ;  an  old  stone  church,  with  elms, 
willows,  and  button-woods,  as  old-looking  as  itself,  and  tomb- 
stones almost  buried  in  their  own  graves ;  and.  peradventure, 
a  small  log  school-house  at  a  cross-road,  where  the  English  is 
still  taught  with  a  thickness  of  the  tongue,  instead  of  a  twaag 
of  the  nose ;  should  you,  I  say,  light  upon  such  a  neighborhood, 
Mr.  Editor,  you  may  thank  your  stars  that  you  have  found  one 
of  the  lingering  haunts  of  poetry  and  romance. 

Your  correspondent,  Sir.  lias  touched  upon  that  sublime  and 
affecting  feature  in  the  history  of  Communipaw,  the  retreat  of 
the  patriotic  band  of  Nederlaaders,  led  by  Van  Home,  whom 
he  justly  terms  the  Pelayo  of  the  New-Netherlands.  He  has 
given  you  a  picture  of  the  manner  in  which  they  ensconced 
themselves  in  the  House  of  the  Four  Chimneys,  and  awaited 
with  heroic  patience  and  perseverance  the  day  that  should  see 
the  flag  of  the  Hogen  Mogens  once  more  floating  on  the  fort  of 
New- Amsterdam. 

Your  correspondent,  Sir,  has  but  given  you  a  glimpse  over 
the  threshold ;  I  will  now  let  you  into  the  heart  of  the  mystery 
of  this  most  mysterious  and  eventful  village.  Yes,  sir,  I  will 
now 

"  unclasp  a  secret  book; 

And  to  your  quick  conceiving  discontents, 
I'll  read  you  matter  deep  and  dangerous, 
As  full  of  peril  and  adventurous  spirit, 
As  to  o'er  walk  a  current,  roaring  loud, 
On  the  un  stead  fast  footing  of  a  spear." 

Sir,  it  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and  interesting  facts  con- 
nected with  the  history  of  Communipaw,  that  the  early  feel- 
ing of  resistance  to  foreign  rule,  alluded  to  by  your  corre- 
spondent, is  still  kept  up.  Yes,  sir,  a  settled,  secret,  and  deter- 
mined conspiracy  has  been  going  on  for  generations  among 
this  indomitable  people,  the  descendants  of  the  refugees  from 
Ne w- Amsterdam ;  the  object  of  which  is  to  redeem  their  an- 
cient seat  of  empire,  and  to  drive  the  losel  Yankees  out  of  the 
land. 

Communipaw,  it  is  true,  has  the  glory  of  originating  this 
conspiracy;  and  it  was  hatched  and  reared  in  the  House  of  the 
Four  Chimneys ;  but  it  has  spread  far  and  wide  over  ancient 


OONSPIRACf  OF  THE   COCKED   RATS.  9fi 

Pavonia,  surmounted  the  heights  of  Bergen,  Hoboken,  and 
Weehawk,  crept  up  along  the  banks  of  the  Passaic  and  the 
Hackensack,  until  it  pervades  the  whole  chivalry  of  the  coun 
try  from  Tappan  Slote  in  the  north  to  Piscataway  in  the  south, 
including  the  pugnacious  village  of  Rahway,  more  heroically 
denominated  Spank-town. 

Throughout  all  these  regions  a  great ' '  in-and-in  confederacy' 
prevails,  that  is  to  say,  a  confederacy  among  the  Dutch  femi 
lies,  by  dint  of  diligent  and  exclusive  intermarriage,  to  keep 
the  race  pure  and  to  multiply.     If  ever,  Mr.  Editor,   in  the 
course  of  your  travels  between  Spank-town  and  Tappan  slote, 
you  should  see  a  cosey,  low-eaved  farm-house,  teeming  with 
sturdy,  broad-built  little  urchins,  you  may  set  it  down  a 
of  the  breeding  places  of  this  grand  secret  confederacy,  si 
with  the  embryo  deliverers  of  New-Amsterdam. 

Another  step  in  the  progress  of  this  patriotic  conspiracy,  is 
the  establishment,  in  various  places  within  the  ancient  boun- 
daries of  the  Nieuw-Nederlands,  of  secret,  or  rather  mysterious 
associations,  composed  of  the  genuine  sons  of  the  Nederlanders, 
with  the  ostensible  object  of  keeping  up  the  memory  of  old 
times  and  customs,  but  with  the  real  object  of  promoting  the 
views  of  tins  dark  and  mighty  plot,  and  extending  its  ramifi- 
cations throughout  the  land. 

Sir,  I  am  descended  from  a  long  line  of  genuine  Nederland- 
ers. who,  though  they  remained  in  the  city  of  New-Amsterdam 
after  the  conquest,  and  throughout  the  usurpation,  have  never 
in  their  hearts  been  able  to  tolerate  the  yoke  imposed  upon 
them.  My  worthy  father,  who  was  one  of  the  last  of  the 
cocked  hats,  had  a  little  knot  of  cronies,  of  his  own  stamp,  who 
used  to  meet  in  our  wainscoted  parlor,  round  a  nut-wood  fire, 
talk  over  old  times,  when  the  city  was  ruled  by  its  native 
burgomasters,  and  groan  over  the  monopoly  of  all  plac 
power  and  profit  by  the  Yankees.  I  well  recollect  the  effect 
upon  this  worthy  little  conclave,  when  the  Yankees  first  insti- 
tuted their  New-England  Society,  held  their  "national  festival,*' 
toasted  their  "  father  land,"  and  Bang  their  foreign  songs  of  tri- 
umph within  the  very  precincts  of  our  ancient  metropolis. 
Sir,  from  that  day  my  father  held  th<>  smell  of  codfish  and  po- 
tatoes, and  the  sight  of  pumpkin  pic.  in  utter  abomination; 
and  whenever  the  annual  dinner  of  t lie  New-England 
came  round,  it  was  a  sore  anniversary  for  hie  children,  lie 
got  up  in  an  ill  humor,  grumbled  and  growled  throughout  the 
and  not  one  of  us  went  to  bed  thai  night,  without  having 


96  WOLFERTS  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 

had  his  jacket  well  trounced,  to  the  tune  of  "  The  Pilgrim 
athers." 

You  may  judge,  then,  Mr.  Editor,  of  the  exaltation  of  all 
tnr  patriots  of  this  stamp,  when  the  Society  of  Saint  Nich- 
olas vas  set  up  among  us,  and  intrepidly  established,  cheek  by 
jole,  alongside  of  the  society  of  the  invaders.  Never  shall  I 
forget  th  effect  upon  my  father  and  his  little  knot  of  brother 
groaners,  when  tidings  were  brought  them  that  the  ancient 
banner  of  the  Manhattoes  was  actually  floating  from  the  win- 
do^-  of  the  City  Hotel.  Sir,  they  nearly  jumped  out  of  their 
silver-buckled  shoes  for  joy.  They  took  down  their  cocked 
hats  from  the  pegs  on  which  they  had  hanged  them,  as  the 
Israelites  of  yore  hung  their  harps  upon  the  willows,  in  token 
of  bondage,  clapped  them  resolutely  once  more  upon  their 
heads,  and  cocked  them  in  the  face  of  every  Yankee  they  met 
on  the  way  to  the  banqueting-room. 

The  institution  of  this  society  was  hailed  with  transport 
throughout  the  whole  extent  of  the  New-Netherlands ;  being 
considered  a  secret  foothold  gained  in  New-Amsterdam,  and  a 
flattering  presage  of  future  triumph.  Whenever  that  society 
Holds  its  annual  feast,  a  sympathetic  hilarity  prevails  through- 
out the  land ;  ancient  Pavonia  sends  over  its  contributions  of 
cabbages  and  oysters:  the  House  of  the  Four  Chimneys  is 
splendidly  illuminated,  and  the  traditional  song  of  St.  Nicholas, 
the  mystic  bond  of  union  and  conspiracy,  is  chaunted  with 
closed  doors,  in  every  genuine  Dutch  family. 

I  have  thui .  I  trust,  Mr.  Editor,  opened  your  eyes  to  some  of 
the  grand  moral,  poetical,  and  political  phenomena  with 
which  you  are  surrounded.  You  will  now  be  able  to  read  the 
"signs  of  the  times."  You  wil  now  understand  what  is  meant 
by  those  ' '  Knickerbocker  Halls, "  and  ' '  Knickerbocker  Hotels, " 
and  '  Knickerbocker  Lunches,"  that  are  daily  springing  up 
•>'  city  and  what  all  these  "Knickerbocker  Omni- 
buses" are  driving  at.  You  will  see  in  them  so  many  clouds 
before  a  storm  so  many  mysterious  but  sublime  intimations 
of  the  gathering  vengeance  of  a  great  though  oppressed 
people.  Above  all,  you  will  now  contemplate  our  bay  and  its 
portentous  borders .  with  proper  feelings  of  awe  and  admiration. 
Talk  of  the  Bay  of  Naples,  and  its  volcanic  mountains !  Why, 
Sir,  little  Communipaw,  sleeping  among  its  cabbage  gardens, 
"quiet  as  gunpowder,"  yet  with  this  tremendous  conspiracy 
brewing  in  its  boson,  is  an  object  ten  times  as  sublime 
(in  a  mural  point  of  view,  mark  me)  as  Vesuvius  in  repose, 


CONSPIRACY  OF  THE  COCKED  HATS.  07 

though  charged  with  lava  and  brimstone,  and  ready  for  an 
eruption. 

Let  me  advert  to  a  circumstance  connected  with  this  theme, 
which  cannot  but  be  appreciated  by  every  heart  of  sensibility. 
You  must  have  remarked,  Mr.  Editor,  on  summer  evenings, 
and  on  Sunday  afternoons,  certain  grave,  primitive-looking 
personages,  walking  the  Battery,  in  close  confabulation,  with 
their  canes  behind  their  backs,  and  ever  and  anon  turning  a 
wistful  gaze  toward  the  Jersey  shore.  These,  Sir,  are  the  sons 
of  Saint  Nicholas,  the  genuine  Nederlanders ;  who  regard  Com- 
munipaw  with  pious'  reverence,  not  merely  as  the  progenitor, 
but  the  destined  regenerator,  of  this  great  metropolis.  Yes, 
Sir ;  they  are  looking  with  longing  eyes  to  the  green  marshes 
of  ancient  Pavonia.  as  did  the  poor  conquered  Spaniards  of 
yore  toward  the  stern  mountains  of  Asturias,  wondering 
whether  the  day  of  deliverance  is  at  hand.  Many  is  the  time, 
when,  in  my  boyhood,  I  have  walked  with  my  father  and  his 
confidential  compeers  on  the  Battery,  and  listened  to  their  cal- 
culations and  conjectures,  and  observed  the  points  of  their 
sharp  cocked  hats  evermore  turned  toward  Pavonia.  Nay,  Sir, 
I  am  convinced  that  at  tins  moment,  if  I  were  to  take  down  the 
cocked  hat  of  my  lamented  father  from  the  peg  on  which  it  has 
hung  for  years,  and  were  to  carry  it  to  the  Battery,  its  centre 
point,  true  as  the  needle  to  the  pole,  would  turn  to  Communipaw. 

Mr.  Editor,  the  great  historic  drama  of  New-Amsterdam,  is 
but  half  acted.  The  reigns  of  Walter  the  Doubter,  William 
the  Testy,  and  Peter  the  Headstrong,  with  the  rise,  progress, 
and  decline  of  the  Dutch  dynasty,  are  but  so  many  parts  of 
the  main  action,  the  triumphant  catastrophe  of  which  is  yet 
to  come.  Yes,  Sir!  the  deliverance  of  the  New-Nederlands 
from  Yankee  domination  will  eclipse  the  far-famed  redemp- 
tion of  Spain  from  the  Moors,  and  the  oft-sung  conquest  of 
Granada  will  fade  before  the  chivalrous  triumph  of  New- 
Amsterdam.  Would  that  Peter  Stuy vesant  could  rise  from  his 
grave  to  witness  that  day  I 

Your  humble  servant, 

Roloff  Van  Ripper. 


P.  S.  Just  as  I  had  concluded  the  foregoing  epistle,  I  received 
apiece  of  intelligence,  which  makes  me  tremble  for  the  fate  of 
Communipaw.  I  fear,  Mr.  Editor,  the  grand  conspiracy  is  in 
danger  of  being  countermined  and  counteracted,  by  those  all- 


08  WOLFERTS  ROOST  AND   MISCELLANIES. 

pervading  and  indefatigable  Yankees.  Would  you  think  it, 
Sir !  one  of  them  has  actually  effected  an  entry  in  the  place  by 
covered  way ;  or  in  other  words,  under  coverof  the  petticoats. 
Finding  every  other  mode  ineffectual,  he  secretly  laid  siege  to 
a  Dutch  heiress,  who  owns  a  great  cabbage-garden  in  her 
own  right.  Being  a  smooth-tongued  varlet,  he  easily  prevailed 
on  her  to  elope  with  him,  and  they  were  privately  married  at 
Spank-town!     The  first  notice  the  good  people  of  Communis 

had  of  this  awful  event,  was  a  lithographed  map  of  the 

►age  garden  laid  out  in  town  lots,  and  advertised  for  sale! 

i       i  tie  night  of  the  wedding,  the  main  weather-cock  of  the 

e  of  the  Four  Chimneys  was  carried  away  in  a  whirl- 
wind :  The  greatest  consternation  reigns  throughout  the 
village ! 


A  LEGEND  OF  COMMUNIPAW. 

TO  THE   EDITOR  OF  THE  KNICKERBOCKER  MAGAZINE. 

Sir  :  I  observed  in  your  last  month's  periodical,  a  communi- 
cation from  a  Mr.  Vanderdonk,  giving  some  information  con- 
cerning Communipaw.  I  herewith  send  you,  Mr.  Editor,  a 
legend  connected  with  that  place ;  and  am  much  surprised  it 
should  have  escaped  the  researches  of  your  very  authentic  cor- 
adent,  as  it  relates  to  an  *edifice  scarcely  less  fated  than 
the  House  of  the  Four  Chimneys.  I  give  you  the  legend  in  its 
and  simple  state,  as  I  heard  it  related ;  it  is  capable,  how- 
ever, of  being  dilated,  inflated,  and  dressed  up  into  very  im- 
posing shape  and  dimensions.  Should  any  of  your  ingenious 
contributors  in  this  line  feel  inclined  to  take  it  in  hand,  they 
will  find  ample  materials,  collateral  and  illustrative,  among 
the  papers  of  the  late  Eeinier  Skaats,  many  years  since  crier 
of  the  court,  and  keeper  of  the  City  Hall,  in  the  city  of  the 
Manhattoes;  or  in  the  library  of  that  important  and  utterly  re- 
nowned functionary,  Mr.  Jacob  Hays,  long  time  high  constable, 
who,  in  the  course  of  his  extensive  researches,  has  amassed 
an  amount  of  valuable  facts,  to  be  rivalled  only  by  that  great 
historical  collection,  ' '  The  Newgate  Calendar. " 

Your  humble  servant, 

Barent  Van  Schaick. 


LEGEND   OF  C0MMUN1PA  9g 

FROM  GIBBET-ISLAND. 

A  LEGEND   OF   COMMUNIPAW. 

Whoever  has  visited  the  ancient  and  renowned  village 
of  Communipaw,  may  have  noticed  an  old  stone  building, 
of  most  ruinous  and  sinister  appearance.  The  doors  and  win- 
dow-shutters are  ready  to  drop  from  their  hinges ;  old  clothes 
are  stuffed  in  the  broken  panes  of  glass,  while  legions  of  half- 
starved  dogs  prowl  about  the  premises,  and  rush  out  and  bark 
at  every  passer-by;  for  your  "beggarly  house  in  a  village  is 
most  apt  to  swarm  with  profligate  and  ill-conditioned  dogs. 
What  adds  to  the  sinister  appearance  of  this  mansion,  is  a  tall 
frame  in  front,  not  a  little  resembling  a  gallows,  and  which 
looks  as  if  waiting  to  accommodate  some  of  the  inhabitants 
with  a  well-merited  airing.  Ii  is  not  a  gallows,  however,  but 
an  ancient  sign-post ;  for  this  dwelling,  in  the  golden  days  of 
Communipaw,  was  one  of  the  most  orderly  and  peaceful  of 
village  taverns,  where  all  the  public  affairs  of  Communipaw 
were  talked  and  smoked  over.  In  fact,  it  was  in  this  very 
building  that  Oloffe  the  Dreamer,  and  his  companions,  ^-n- 
certed  that  great  voyage  of  discovery  and  colonization,  in  which 
they  explored  Buttermilk  Channel,  were  nearly  shipwrecked  in 
the  strait  of  Hell-gate,  and  finally  landed  on  the  Island  of  Man- 
hattan, and  founded  the  great  city  of  New- Amsterdam. 

Even  after  the  province  had  been  cruelly  wrested  from  the 
sway  of  their  High  Mightinesses,  by  the  combined  forces  of  the 
British  and  Yankees,  this  tavern  continued  its  ancient  loyalty. 
It  is  true,  the  head  of  the  Prince  of  Orange  disappeared  from 
the  sign:  a  strange  bird  being  painted  over  it,  with  the  explan- 
atory legend  of  " Die  Wilde  Gaxs."  or  The  Wild  Goose;  but 
this  all  the  world  knew  to  be  a  sly  riddle  of  the  landlord,  the 
worthy  Tennis  Van  Gieson,  a  knowing  man  in  a  small  way, 
who  laid  his  finger  beside  his  nose  and  winked,  when  any 
one  studied  the  signification  of  his  sign,  and  observed  that  his 
goose  was  hatching,  but  would  join  the  flock  whenever  they 
flew  over  the  water;  an  enigma  which  was  the  perpetual  rec- 
reation ai  't  of  the  loyal  but  fat-headed  burghers  of 
Communi; 

Under  the  sway  of  tin's  patriotic,  though  discreel  and  quiet 
publican,  the  tavern  continued  to  flourish  in  primeval  tran- 


I"0  WOLFERTS   ItOOST  AM)  MTSCELLANIES. 

quillity,  and  was  the  resort  of  all  true-hearted  Nederlanders, 
i  all  parts  of  Pavonia ;  who  met  here  quietly  and  secretly, 
to  smoke  and  drink  the  downfall  of  Briton  and  Yankee,  and 
success  to  Admiral  Van  Tromp. 

The  only  drawback  on  the  comfort  of  the  establishment,  was 
a  nephew  of  mine  host,  a  sister's  son,  Yan  Yost  Vanderscamp 
by  name,  and  a  real  scamp  by  nature.  This  unlucky  whipster 
showed  an  early  propensity  to  mischief,  which  he  gratified  in 
a  small  way.  by  playing  tricks  upon  the  frequenters  of  the 
Wild  Goose;  putting  gunpowder  in  their  pipes,  or  squibs  in 
their  pockets,  and  astonishing  them  with  an  explosion,  while 
they  sat  nodding  round  the  fire-place  in  the  bar-room;  and  if 
perchance  a  worthy  burgher  from  some  distant  part  of  Pavonia 
had  lingered  until  dark  over  his  potation,  it  was  odds  but  that 
young  Vanderscamp  would  slip  a  briar  under  his  horse's  tail, 
as  he  mounted,  and  send  him  clattering  along  the  road,  in  neck- 
or-nothing  style,  to  his  infinite  astonishment  and  discomfiture. 

It  may  be  wondered  at.  that  mine  host  of  the  Wild  Goose  did 
not  turn  such  a  graceless  varlet  out  of  doors;  but  Teunis  Van 
Gieson  was  an  easy-tempered  man,  and,  having  no  child  of  his 
own,  looked  upon  his  nephew  with  almost  parental  indulgence. 
His  patience  and  good-nature  were  doomed  to  be  tried  by  an* 
other  inmate  of  his  mansion.  This  was  a  cross-grained  cur* 
mudgeon  of  a  negro,  named  Pluto,  who  was  a  kind  of  enigma 
in  Communipaw.  Where  he  came  from,  nobody  knew.  He 
was  found  one  morning,  after  a  storm,  cast  like  a  sea-monster 
on  the  strand,  in  front  of  the  Wild  Goose,  and  lay  there,  more 
dead  than  alive.  The  neighbors  gathered  round,  and  specu- 
lated on  this  production  of  the  deep ;  whether  it  were  fish  or 
flesh,  or  a  compound  of  both,  commonly  yclept  a  merman. 
The  kind-hearted  Teunis  Van  Gieson,  seeing  that  he  wore  the 
human  form,  took  him  into  his  house,  and  warmed  him  into 
life.  By  degrees,  he  showed  signs  of  intelligence,  and  even 
uttered  sounds  very  much  like  language,  but  which  no  one  in 
Communipaw  could  understand.  Some  thought  him  a  negro 
just  from  Guinea,  who  had  either  fallen  overboard,  or  escaped 
from  a  slave-ship.  Nothing,  however,  could  ever  draw  from 
him  any  account  of  his  origin.  When  questioned  on  the  sub- 
ject, he  merely  pointed  to  Gibbet-Island,  a  small  rocky  islet, 
which  lies  in  the  open  bay,  just  opposite  to  Communipaw,  as 
if  that  were  his  native  place,  though  every  body  knew  it  had 
never  been  inhabited. 

In  the  process  of  time,  he  acquired  something  of  the  Dutch 


A    LEGEND   OF  COMMUNIPAW.  101 

language,  that  is  to  say,  ^e  learnt  all  its  vocabulary  of  on  His 
and  maledictions,  with  just  words  sufficient  to  string  them  to- 
gether. "  Donder  en  blicksen !"  (thunder  and  lightning,)  was 
the  gentlest  of  his  ejaculations.  For  years  he  kept  about  the 
Wild  Goose,  more  like  one  of  those  familiar  spirits,  or  house- 
hold goblins,  that  we  read  of,  than  like  a  human  being.  He 
acknowledged  allegiance  to  no  one,  but  performed  various 
domestic  offices,  when  it  suited  his  humor ;  waiting  occasion- 
ally on  the  guests ;  grooming  the  horses,  cutting  wood,  drawing 
water;  and  all  this  without  being  ordered.  Lay  any  command 
on  him,  and  the  stubborn  sea-urchin  was  sure  to  rebel.  He  was 
never  so  much  at  home,  however,  as  when  on  the  water,  plying 
about  in  skiff  or  canoe,  entirely  alone,  fishing,  crabbing,  or 
grabbing  for  oysters,  and  would  bring  home  quantities  for  the 
larder  of  the  Wild  Goose,  which  he  woidd  throw  down  at  the 
kitchen  door,  with  a  growl.  No  wind  nor  weather  deterred  him 
from  launching  forth  on  his  favorite  element:  indeed,  the 
wilder  the  weather,  the  more  he  seemed  to  enjoy  it.  If  a 
storm  was  brewing,  he  was  sure  to  put  off  from  shore ;  and 
would  be  seen  far  out  in  the  bay,  his  light  skiff  dancing  like  a 
feather  on  the  waves,  when  sea  and  sky  were  all  in  a  turmoil, 
and  the  stoutest  ships  were  fain  to  lower  their  sails.  Some- 
times, on  such  occasions,  he  would  be  absent  for  days  together. 
How  he  weathered  the  tempest,  and  how  and  where  he  sub- 
sisted, no  one  coidd  divine,  nor  did  any  one  venture  to  ask.  for 
all  had  an  almost  superstitious  awe  of  him.  Some  of  the  Com- 
munipaw  oystermen  declared  that  they  had  more  than  once 
seen  him  suddenly  disappear,  canoe  and  all.  as  if  they  plunged 
beneath  the  waves,  and  after  a  while  come  up  again,  in  quite  a 
different  part  of  the  bay;  whence  they  concluded  that  he  could 
live  under  water  like  that  notable  species  of  wild  duck,  com- 
monly called  the  Hell-diver.  All  began  to  consider  him  in  the 
light  of  a  foul-weather  bird,  like  the  Mother  Carey's  Chicken, 
or  Stormy  Petrel ;  and  whenever  they  saw  him  putting  far  out 
in  his  skiff,  in  cloudy  weather,  made  up  their  minds  for  a 
storm. 

The  only  being  for  whom  he  seemed  to  have  any  liking,  was 
Yan  Yost  Vanderscamp.  and  him  he  liked  for  his  very  wicked- 
ness. He  in  a  manner  took  the  boy  under  his  tutelage, 
prompted  him  to  all  kinds  of  mischief,  aided  him  in  every  wild, 
harum-scarum  freak,  until  the  lad  became  the  complete  scape- 
grace of  the  village;  a  pest  to  his  uncle,  and  to  every  on< 
Nor  were  his  pranks  confined  to  the  land ;  he  soon  learned  to 


102  WO/sFh'RT'S  BOOST  AND    MISCELLANIES. 

accompany  old  Pluto  on  the  water.  Together  these  worthies 
would  cruise  about  the  broad  bay,  and  all  the  neighboring 
straits  and  rivers:  poking  around  in  skiffs  and  canoes;  robbing 
the  set-nets  of  the  fishermen;  landing  on  remote  coasts,  and 
laying  waste  orchards  and  water-melon  patches;  in  short, 
carrying  on  a  complete  system  of  piracy,  on  a  small  scale. 
Piloted  by  Pluto,  the  youthful  Vanderscamp  soon  became 
acquainted  with  all  the  bays,  rivers,  creeks,  and  inlets  of  the 
watery  world  around  him;  could  navigate  from  the  Hook  to 
Spiting-devil  on  the  darkest  night,  and  learned  to  set  even  the 
terrors  of  1 1  ell-gate  at  defia 

At  length,  negro  and  boy  suddenly  disappeared,  and  days 
and  weeks  elapsed,  but  without  tidings  of  them.  Some  said 
they  must  have  run  away  and  gone  to  sea;  others  jocosely 
hinted,  that  eld  Pluto,  being  no  other  than  his  namesake  in 
disguise,  had  spirited  away  the  boy  to  the  nether  regions.  All, 
however,  agreed  in  one  thing,  that  the  village  w^as  well  rid 
of  them. 

In  the  process  of  time,  the  good  Teunis  Van  Gieson  slept  with 
his  father-,  and  the  tavern  remained  shut  up,  waiting  for  a 
claimant,  for  the  next  heir  was  Yan  Yost  Vanderscamp.  and 
he  had  not  been  heard  of  for  years.  At  length,  one  day,  a  boat 
was  seen  pulling  for  the  shore,  from  a  long,  black,  rakish-look- 
ing schooner,  that  lay  at  anchor  in  the  h&y.  The  boat's  crew 
seemed  worthy  of  the  craft  from  which  they  debarked.  Never 
had  such  a  set  of  noisy,  roistering,  swaggering  varlets  landed 
in  peaceful  Communipaw.  They  were  outlandish  in  garb  and 
demeanor,  and  were  headed  hy  a  rough,  burly,  bully  ruffian, 
with  fiery  whiskers,  a  copper  nose,  a  scar  across  his  face,  and 
a  great  Flaunderish  beaver  slouched  on  one  side  of  his  head,  in 
whom,  to  their  dismay,  the  quiet  inhabitants  were  made  to 
recognize  their  early  pest,  Yan  Yost  Vanderscamp.  The  rear 
of  this  hopeful  gang  was  brought  up  by  old  Pluto,  who}] ad  lost 
an  eye,  grown  grizzly-headed,  and  looked  more  like  a  devil 
than  ever.  Vanderscamp  renewed  his  acquaintance  with  the 
old  burghers,  much  against  their  will,  and  in  a  manner  not  at 
all  to  their  taste.  He  slapped  them  familiarly  on  the  back, 
gave  them  an  iron  grip  of  the  hand,  and  was  hail  fellow  well 
met.  According  to  his  own  account,  he  had  been  all  the  world 
over ;  had  made  money  by  bap;s  full ;  had  ships  in  every  sea, 
and  now  meant  to  turn  the  Wild  Goose  into  a  country  seat, 
where  he  and  his  comrades,  all  rich  merchants  from  foreign 
parts,  might  enjoy  themselves  in  the  interval  of  their  voyages. 


A    LEGEND  OF  COMMUNIPAW.  108 

Sure  enough,  in  a  little  while  there  was  a  complete  metamor- 
phose of  the  Wild  Goose.  From  being  a  quiet,  peaceful  Dutch 
public  house,  it  became  a  most  riotous,  uproarious  private 
dwelling;  a  complete  rendezvous  for  boisterous  men  of  the  seas, 
who  came  here  to  have  what  they  called  a  'blow  out"  on  dry 
land,  and  might  be  seen  at  all  hours,  lounging  about  the  door, 
or  lolling  out  of  the  windows;  swearing  among  themselves 
and  cracking  rough  jokes  on  every  passer-by.  The  house  was 
fitted  up,  too,  in  so  strange  a  manner :  hammocks  slung  to  the 
walls,  instead  of  bedsteads ;  odd  kinds  of  furniture,  of  foreign 
fashion;  bamboo  couches,  Spanish  chairs;  pistols,  cutlasses, 
and  blunderbusses,  suspended  on  every  peg;  silver  crucifixes 
on  the  mantel-pieces,  silver  candle-sticks  and  porringers  on 
the  tables,  contrasting  oddly  with  the  pewter  and  Delf  ware 
of  the  original  establishment.  And  then  the  strange  amuse- 
ments of  these  sea-monsters !  Pitching  Spanish  dollars,  instead 
of  quoits;  firing  blunderbusses  out  of  the  window;  shoot- 
ing at  a  mark,  or  at  any  unhappy  dog,  or  cat,  or  pig,  or 
barn-door  fowl,  that  might  happen  to  come  within  reach. 

The  only  being  who  seemed  to  relish  their  rough  waggery, 
was  old  Pluto ;  and  yet  he  led  but  a  dog's  life  of  it ;  for  they 
practised  all  kinds  of  manual  jokes  upon  him;  kicked  him 
about  like  a  foot-ball ;  shook  him  by  his  grizzly  mop  of  wool, 
and  never  spoke  to  him  without  coupling  a  curse  by  way  of 
adjective  to  his  name,  and  consigning  him  to  the  infernal  re- 
gions. The  old  fellow,  however,  seemed  to  like  them  the  better, 
the  more  they  cursed  him,  though  his  utmost  expression  of 
pleasure  never  amounted  to  more  than  the  growl  of  a  petted 
bear,  when  his  ears  are  rubbed. 

Old  Pluto  was  the  ministering  spirit  at  the  orgies  of  the  Wild 
Goose;  and  such  orgies  as  took  place  there!  Such  drinking, 
singing,  whooping,  swearing;  with  an  occasional  interlude  of 
quarrelling  and  fighting.  The  noisier  grew  the  revel,  the  m  >re 
old  Pluto  plied  the  potations,  until  the  guests  would  become 
frantic  in  their  merriment,  smashing  everything  to  pieces,  and 
throwing  the  house  out  of  the  windows.  Sometimes,  after  a 
drinking  bout,  they  sallied  forth  and  scoured  the  village,  to 
the  dismay  of  the  worthy  burghers,  who  gathered  their  women 
within  doors,  and  would  have  shut  up  the  house.  Vanderscamp, 
however,  was  not  to  be  rebuffed.  He  insisted  on  renewing 
acquaintance  with  his  old  neighbors,  and  on  introducing  his 
friends,  the  merchants,  to  their  families;  swore  he  was  on  the 
look-out  for  a  wife,  and  meant,  before  he  stopped,  to  find  bus- 


104  WOLFERT'S  ROOST  AND   MISCELLANIES. 

bands  for  all  their  daughters.  So,  will-ye,  nil-ye,  sociable  he 
was ;  swaggered  about  their  best  parlors,  with  his  hat  on  one 
side  of  his  head ;  sat  on  the  good  wife's  nicely- waxed  mahogany 
table,  kicking  his  heels  against  the  carved  and  polished  legs; 
kissed  and  tousled  the  young  vrouws ;  and,  if  they  frowned  and 
pouted,  gave  them  a  gold  rosary,  or  a  sparkling  cross,  to  put 
them  in  good  humor  again. 

Sometimes  nothing  would  satisfy  him,  but  he  must  have 
some  of  his  old  neighbors  to  dinner  at  the  Wild  Goose. 
There  was  no  refusing  him,  for  he  had  got  the  complete  upper- 
hand  of  the  community,  and  the  peaceful  burghers  all  stood 
in  awe  of  him.  But  what  a  time  would  the  quiet,  worthy 
men  have,  among  these  rake-hells,  who  would  delight  to  as- 
tound them  with  the  most  extravagant  gunpowder  tales,  em- 
broidered with  all  kinds  of  foreign  oaths ;  chnk  the  can  with 
them ;  pledge  them  in  deep  potations ;  bawl  drinking  songs  in 
their  ears;  and  occasionally  fire  pistols  over  their  heads,  or 
under  the  table,  and  then  laugh  in  their  faces,  and  ask  them 
how  they  liked  the  smell  of  gunpowder. 

Thus  was  the  little  village  of  Communipaw  for  a  time  like 
the  unfortunate  wight  possessed  with  devils;  until  Vander- 
scamp  and  his  brother  merchants  would  sail  on  another 
trading  voyage,  when  the  Wild  Goose  would  be  shut  up,  and 
every  tiling  relapse  into  quiet,  only  to  be  disturbed  by  his  next 
visitation. 

The  mystery  of  all  these  proceedings  gradually  dawned  upon 
the  tardy  intellects  of  Communipaw.  These  were  the  times 
of  the  notorious  Captain  Kidd,  when  the  American  harbors 
were  the  resorts  of  piratical  adventurers  of  all  kinds,  who, 
under  pretext  of  mercantile  voyages,  scoured  the  West  Indies, 
made  plundering  descents  upon  the  Spanish  Main,  visited 
even  the  remote  Indian  Seas,  and  then  came  to  dispose  of 
their  booty,  have  their  revels,  and  fit  out  new  expeditions,  in 
the  English  colonies. 

Vanderscamp  had  served  in  this  hopeful  school,  and  having 
risen  to  importance  among  the  bucaniers,  had  pitched  upon 
his  native  village  and  early  home,  as  a  quiet,  out-of-the-way, 
unsuspected  place,  where  he  and  his  comrades,  while  anchored 
at  New  York,  might  have  their  feasts,  and  concert  their  plans, 
without  molestation. 

At  length  the  attention  of  the  British  government  was  called 
to  these  piratical  enterprises,  that  were  becoming  so  frequent 
and  outrageous.     Vigorous  measures  were  taken  to  check  and 


A  LEGEND   OF  COMMUNIPAW.  105 

punish  them.  Several  of  tne  most  noted  freebooters  were 
caught  and  executed,  and  three  of  Vanderscamp's  chosen  com- 
rades, the  most  riotous  swash-bucklers  of  the  Wild  Goose, 
were  hanged  in  chains  on  Gibbet-Island,  in  full  sight  of  their 
favorite  resort.  As  to  Vanderscamp  himself,  he  and  his  man 
Pluto  again  disappeared,  and  it  was  hoped  by  the  people  of 
Communipaw  that  he  had  fallen  in  some  foreign  brawl,  or 
been  swung  on  some  foreign  gallows. 

For  a  time,  therefore,  the  tranquillity  of  the  village  was  re- 
stored ;  the  worthy  Dutchmen  once  more  smoked  their  pipes 
in  peace,  eying,  with  peculiar  complacency,  their  old  pests  and 
terrors,  the  pirates,  dangling  and  drying  in  the  sun,  on  Gibbet- 
Island. 

This  perfect  calm  was  doomed  at  length  to  be  ruffled.  The 
fiery  persecution  of  the  pirates  gradually  subsided.  Justice 
was  satisfied  with  the  examples  that  had  been  made,  and  there 
was  no  more  talk  of  Kidd,  and  the  other  heroes  of  like  kidney. 
On  a  calm  summer  evening,  a  boat,  somewhat  heavily  laden, 
was  seen  piilling  into  Communipaw.  What  was  the  surprise 
and  disquiet  of  the  inhabitants,  to  see  Yan  Yost  Vanderscamp 
seated  at  the  helm,  and  his  man  Pluto  tugging  at  the  oars ! 
Vanderscamp,  however,  was  apparently  an  altered  man.  He 
brought  home  with  him  a  wife,  who  seemed  to  be  a  shrew, 
and  to  have  the  upper-hand  of  him.  He  no  longer  was  the 
swaggering,  bully  ruffian,  but  affected  the  regular  merchant, 
and  talked  of  retiring  from  business,  and  settling  down, 
quietly,  to  pass  the  rest  of  his  days  in  Ms  native  place. 

The  Wild  Goose  mansion  was  again  opened,  but  with  dimi- 
nished splendor,  and  no  riot.  It  is  true,  Vanderscamp  had  fre- 
quent nautical  visitors,  and  the  sound  of  revelry  was  occasion- 
ally overheard  in  his  house ;  but  every  thing  seemed  to  be  done 
under  the  rose ;  and  old  Pluto  was  the  only  servant  that  offi- 
ciated at  these  orgies.  The  visitors,  indeed,  were  by  no  means 
of  the  turbulent  stamp  of  their  predecessors;  but  quiet,  mys- 
terious traders,  full  of  nods,  and  winks,  and  hieroglyphic 
signs,  with  whom,  to  use  their  cant  phrase,  hing  was 

smug."  Their  ships  came  to  anchor  at  night  in  the  lower  bay; 
and.  on  a  private  signal,  Vanderscamp  would  launch  his  .boat, 
and  accompanied  solely  by  his  man  Pluto,  would  make  them 
mysterious  visits.  Sometimes  boats  pulled  in  at  night,  in 
front  of  the  Wild  Goose,  and  various  articles  of  merchandise 
were  landed  in  the  dark,  and  spirited  away,  nobody  knew 
whither.    One  of  the  more  curious  of  the  inhabitants  kept? 


106  WOLFERTS  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 

watch,  and  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  features  of  some  of  these 
night  visitors,  by  the  casual  glance  of  a  lantern,  and  declared 
that  he  recognized  more  than  one  of  the  freebooting  frequen- 
ters of  the  Wild  Goose,  in  former  times ;  from  whence  he  con- 
cluded that  Vanderscamp  was  at  his  old  game,  and  that  this 
mysterious  merchandise  was  nothing  more  nor  less  than 
piratical  plunder.  The  more  charitable  opinion,  however,  was, 
that  Vanderscamp  and  his  comrades,  having  been  driven 
from  their  old  line  of  business,  by  the  "  oppressions  of  govern- 
ment," had  resorted  to  smuggling  to  make  both  ends  meet. 

Be  that  as  it  may :  I  come  now  to  the  extraordinary  fact, 
which  is  the  butt-end  of  this  story.  It  happened  late  one 
night,  that  Yan  Yost  Vanderscamp  was  returning  across  the 
broad  bay,  in  his  light  skiff,  rowed  by  his  man  Pluto.  He 
had  been  carousing  on  board  of  a  vessel,  newly  arrived,  and 
was  somewhat  obfuscated  in  intellect,  by  the  liquor  he  had 
imbibed.  It  was  a  still,  sultry  night ;  a  heavy  mass  of  lurid 
clouds  was  rising  in  the  west,  with  the  low  muttering  of  dis- 
tant thunder.  Vanderscamp  called  on  Pluto  to  pull  lustily, 
that  they  might  get  home  before  the  gathering  storm.  The 
old  negro  made  no  reply,  but  shaped  his  course  so  as  to  skirt 
the  rocky  shores  of  Gibbet-Island.  A  faint  creaking  overhead 
caused  Vanderscamp  to  cast  up  his  eyes,  when,  to  his  horror, 
he  beheld  the  bodies  of  his  three  pot  companions  and  brothers 
in  iniquity  dangling  in  the  moonlight,  their  rags  fluttering,  and 
their  chains  creaking,  as  they  were  slowly  swung  backward 
and  forward  by  the  rising  breeze. 

"What  do  you  mean,  you1  blockhead!"  cried  Vanderscamp, 
"  by  pulling  so  close  to  the  island?" 

11 1  thought  you'd  be  glad  to  see  your  old  friends  once  more," 
growled  the  negro;  "you  were  never  afraid  of  a  living  man, 
what  do  you  fear  from  the  dead?" 

"  Who's  afraid?"  hiccupped  Vanderscamp,  partly  heated  by 
liquor,  partly  nettled  by  the  jeer  of  the  negro;  "who's  afraid! 
Hang  me,  but  I  would  be  glad  to  see  them  once  more,  alive  or 
dead,  at  the  Wild  Goose.  Come,  my  lads  in  the  wind !"  con- 
tinued he,  taking  a  draught,  and  flourishing  the  bottle  above 
his  head,  "  here's  fair  weather  to  you  in  the  other  world;  and 
if  you  should  be  walking  the  rounds  to-night,  odds  fish!  but 
I'll  be  happy  if  you  will  drop  in  to  supper." 

A  dismal  creaking  was  the  only  reply.  The  wind  blew  loud 
and  shrill,  and  as  it  whistled  round  the  gallows,  and  among  the 
bones,  sounded  as  if  there  were  laughing  and  gibbering  in  the 


A    LBQE'ND  OF  COMMUNlPAW.  107 

air.    Old  Pluto  chuckled  to  himself,  and  now  pulled  for  home. 

The  storm  burst  over  the  voyagers,  while  they  were  yet  far 
from  shore.  The  rain  fell  in  torrents,  the  thunder  crashed  and 
pealed,  and  the  lightning  kept  up  an  incessant  blaze.  It  was 
stark  midnight,  before  they  landed  at  Communipaw. 

Dripping  and  shivering,  Vanderscamp  crawled  homeward. 
He  was  completely  sobered  by  the  storm;  the  water  soaked 
from  without,  having  diluted  and  cooled  the  liquor  within. 
Arrived  at  the  Wild  Goose,  he  knocked  timidly  aud  dubiously 
at  the  door,  for  he  dreaded  the  reception  he  was  to  experience 
from  his  wife.  He  had  reason  to  do  so.  She  met  him  at  the 
threshold,  in  a  precious  ill  humor. 

"  Is  this  a  time,"  said  she,  "to  keep  people  out  of  their  beds, 
and  to  bring  home  company,  to  turn  the  house  upside  down?" 

"Company?"  said  Vanderscamp,  meekly;  "I  have  brought 
no  company  with  me,  wife. " 

"No,  indeed!  they  have  got  here  before  you,  but  by  your 
invitation ;  and  blessed-looking  company  they  are,  truly !" 

Vanderscamp's  knees  smote  together.  "For  the  love  of 
heaven,  where  are  they,  wife?" 

"Where?— why,  in  the  blue-room,  up-stairs,  making  them- 
selves as  much  at  home  as  if  the  house  were  their  own." 

Vanderscamp  made  a  desperate  effort,  scrambled  up  to  the 
room,  and  threw  open  the  door.  Sure  enough,  there  at  a  table, 
on  which  burned  a  light  as  blue  as  brimstone,  sat  the  three 
guests  from  Gibbet-Island,  with  halters  round  their  necks,  and 
bobbing  their  cups  together,  as  if  they  were  hob-or-nobbing, 
and  trolling  the  old  Dutch  freebooter's  glee,  since  translated 
into  English : 

"  For  three  merry  lads  be  we. 
And  three  merry  lads  be  we; 
I  on  the  land,  and  thou  on  the  sand. 
And  Jack  on  the  gallows-tree." 

Vanderscamp  saw  and  heard  no  more.  Starting  baek  with 
horror,  he  missed  his  footing  on  the  landing-place,  and  fell 
from  the  top  of  the  stairs  to  the  bottom.  He  was  taken  up 
speechless,  and,  either  from  the  fall  or  the  fright,  was  buried 
in  the  yard  of  the  little  Dutch  church  at  Bergen,  on  the  fol- 
lowing Sunday. 

From  that  day  forward,  the  fate  of   the  Wild  Goose  was 

sealed.    It  was  pronounced  a  haunted  house,  and  avoided  ac- 

!  cordingly.     No  one  inhabited  it  but  Vanderscamp's  shrew  of 

I  a  widow,  and  old  Pluto,  and  they  were  considered  but  little 


108  WOLFERTS  ROOST  AND   MISCELLANIES. 

better  than  its  hobgoblin  visitors.  Pluto  grew  more  and  more 
haggard  and  morose,  and  looked  more  like  an  imp  of  darkness 
than  a  human  being.  He  spoke  to  no  one,  but  went  about  mut- 
tering to  himself;  or,  as  some  hinted,  talking  with  the  devil, 
who,  though  unseen,  was  ever  at  his  elbow.  Now  and  then  he 
was  seen  pulling  about  the  bay  alone,  in  his  skiff,  in  dark 
weather,  or  at  the  approach  of  night-fall;  nobody  could  tell 
why,  unless  on  an  errand  to  invite  more  guests  from  the  gal- 
lows. Indeed  it  was  affirmed  that  the  Wild  Goose  still  con- 
tinued to  be  a  house  of  entertainment  for  such  guests,  and  that 
on  stormy  nights,  the  blue  chamber  was  occasionally  illumi- 
nated, and  sounds  of  diabolical  merriment  were  overheard; 
mingling  with  the  howling  of  the  tempest.  Some  treated 
these  as  idle  stories,  until  on  one  such  night,  it  was  about  the 
time  of  the  equinox,  there  was  a  horrible  uproar  in  the  Wild 
Goose,  that  could  not  be  mistaken.  It  was  not  so  much  the 
sound  of  revelry,  however,  as  strife,  with  two  or  three  piercing 
shrieks,  that  pervaded  every  part  of  the  village.  Nevertheless, 
no  one  thought  of  hastening  to  the  spot.  On  the  contrary,  the 
honest  burghers  of  Communipaw  drew  their  night-caps  over 
their  ears,  and  buried  their  heads  under  the  bed-clothes,  at  the 
thoughts  of  Vanderscamp  and  his  gallows  companions. 

The  next  morning,  some  of  the  bolder  and  more  curious 
undertook  to  reconnoitre.  All  was  quiet  and  lifeless  at  the 
Wild  Goose.  The  door  yawned  wide  open,  and  had  evidently 
been  open  all  night,  for  the  storm  had  beaten  into  the  house. 
Gathering  more  courage  from  the  silence  and  apparent  deser- 
tion, they  gradually  ventured  over  the  threshold.  The  house 
had  indeed  the  air  of  having  been  possessed  by  devils.  Every 
thing  was  topsy-turvy;  trunks  had  been  broken  open,  and 
chests  of  drawers  and  corner  cupboards  turned  inside  out,  as 
in  a  time  of  general  sack  and  pillage ;  but  the  most  wof  ul  sight 
was  the  widoiv  of  Yan  Yost  Vanderscamp,  extended  a  corpse 
on  the  floor  of  the  blue-chamber,  with  the  marks  of  a  deadly 
gripe  on  the  wind-pipe. 

All  now  was  conjecture  and  dismay  at  Communipaw ;  and 
the  disappearance  of  old  Pluto,  who  was  no  where  to  be  found, 
gave  rise  to  all  kinds  of  wild  surmises.  Some  suggested  that 
the  negro  had  betrayed  the  house  to  some  of  Vanderscamp's 
bucaniering  associates,  and  that  they  had  decamped  togethei 
with  the  booty ;  others  surmised  that  the  negro  was  nothing 
more  nor  less  than  a  devil  incarnate,  who  had  now  accom- 
plished his  ends,  and  made  off  with  his  dues. 


THE  BERMUDAS.  109 

Events,  however,  vindicated  the  negro  from  this  last  imputa- 
tion. His  skiff  was  picked  up,  drifting  about  the  bay,  bottom 
upward,  as  if  wrecked  in  a  tempest ;  and  his  body  was  found, 
shortly  afterward,  by  some  Communipaw  fishermen,  stranded 
among  the  rocks  of  Gibbet-Island,  near  the  foot  of  the  pirates' 
gallows.  The  fishermen  shook  their  heads,  and  observed  that 
old  Pluto  had  ventured  once  too  often  to  invite  Guests  from 
Gibbet-Island. 


THE  BERMUDAS. 


A  SHAKSPERIAN  RESEARCH:    BY    THE    AUTHOR    OF    THE    SKETCH- 
BOOK. 

"Who  did  not  think,  till  Within  these  foure  yeares,  but  that  these  islands  had  been 
rather  a  habitation  for  Divells,  than  fit  for  men  to  dwell  in?  Who  did  not  hate  the 
name,  when  hee  was  ou  land,  and  shun  the  place  when  he  was  on  the  seas?  But 
behold  the  misprision  and  conceits  of  the  world !  For  true  and  large  experience 
hath  now  told  us.  it  is  one  of  the  sweetest  paradises  that  be  upon  earth. "—"  A 
Plaine  Descript.  of  the  Barmcdas:"  1613. 

In  the  course  of  a  voyage  home  from  England,  our  ship  had 
been  struggling,  for  two  or  three  weeks,  with  perverse  head- 
winds, and  a  stormy  sea.  It  was  in  the  month  of  May,  yet 
the  weather  had  at  times  a  wintry  sharpness,  and  it  was  ap- 
prehended that  we  were  in  the  neighborhood  of  floating  islands 
of  ice,  which  at  that  season  of  the  year  drift  out  of  the  Gulf  of 
Saint  Lawrence,  and  sometimes  occasion  the  wreck  of  noble 
ships. 

Wearied  out  by  the  continued  opposition  of  the  elements, 
our  captain  at  length  bore  away  to  the  south,  in  hopes  of 
catching  the  expiring  breath  of  the  trade-winds,  and  making 
what  is  called  the  southern  passage.  A  few  days  wrought,  as 
it  were,  a  magical ' '  sea  change"  in  every  thing  around  us.  We 
seemed  to  emerge  into  a  different  world.  The  late  dark  and 
angry  sea,  lashed  up  into  roaring  and  swashing  surges,  became 
calm  and  sunny ;  the  rude  winds  died  away ;  and  gradually  a 
light  breeze  sprang  up  directly  ait.  filling  out  every  sail,  and 
wafting  us  smoothly  along  on  an  even  keel.  The  air  softened 
into  a  bland  and  delightful  temperature.  Dolphins  began  to 
play  about  us ;  the  nautilus  came  floating  by,  like  a  fairy  ship, 
with  its  mimic  sail  and  rainbow    tints:   and  flying-fish,  from 


HO  WOLFERT'S  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 

time  to  time,  made  their  short  excursive  nights,  and  occasion- 
ally fell  upon  the  deck.  The  cloaks  and  overcoats  in  which  we 
had  hitherto  wrapped  ourselves,  and  moped  about  the  vessel, 
were  thrown  aside ;  for  a  summer  warmth  had  succeeded  to 
the  late  wintry  chills.  Sails  were  stretched  as  awnings  over 
the  quarter-deck,  to  protect  us  from  the  mid-day  sun.  Under 
these  we  lounged  away  the  day,  in  luxurious  indolence,  musing, 
with  half -shut  eyes,  upon  the  quiet  ocean.  The  night  was 
1  scarcely  less  beautiful  than  the  day.  The  rising  moon  sent  a 
'  quivering  column  of  silver  along  the  undulating  surface  of  the 
deep,  and,  gradually  climbing  the  heaven,  lit  up  our  towering 
top-sails  and  swelling  main-sails,  and  spread  a  pale,  mysterious 
light  around.  As  our  ship  made  her  whispering  way  through 
this  dreamy  world  of  waters,  every  boisterous  sound  on  board 
was  charmed  to  silence;  and  the  low  whistle,  or  drowsy  song 
of  a  sailor  from  the  forecastle,  or  the  tinkling  of  a  guitar,  and 
the  soft  warbling  of  a  female  voice  from  the  quarter-deck, 
seemed  to  derive  a  witching  melody  from  the  scene  and  hour. 
T  was  reminded  of  Oberoms  exquisite  description  of  music  and 
moonlight  on  the  ocean : 

"Thou  rememberest 

Since  once  I  sal  upon  a  promontory, 

And  heard  a  mermaid  on  a  dolphin's  back, 

Uttering  such  dulcet  and  harmonious  breath. 

That  the  rude  sea  grew  civil  at  her  song  J 

And  certain  stars  shot  madly  from  their  spheres, 

To  hear  the  sea-maid's  music.'' 

Indeed,  I  was  in  the  very  mood  to  conjure  up  all  the  ima- 
ginary beings  with  which  poetry  has  peopled  old  ocean,  and 
almost  ready  to  fancy  I  heard  the  distant  song  of  the  mermaid, 
or  the  mellow  shell  of  the  triton,  and  to  picture  to  myself  Nep- 
tune and  Amphitrite  with  all  their  pageant  sweeping  along  the 
dim  horizon. 

A  day  or  two  of  such  fanciful  voyaging  brought  us  in  sight 
of  the  Bermudas,  which  first  looked  like  mere  summer  clouds, 
peering  above  the  quiet  ocean.  All  day  we  glided  along  in 
sight  of  them,  with  just  wind  enough  to  fill  our  sails;  and 
never  did  land  appear  more  lovely.  They  were  clad  in  emerald 
verdure,  beneath  the  serenest  of  skies:  not  an  angry  wave 
broke  upon  their  quiet  shores,  and  small  fishing  craft,  riding 
on  the  crystal  waves,  seemed  as  if  hung  in  air.  It  was  such  a 
scene  that  Fletcher  pictured  to  himself,  when  he  extolled  the 
halcyon  lot  of  the  fisherman : 


TEE  BERMUDAS.  Ill 

Vh:  would  thou  knewest  how  ranch  it  better  were 

To  bide  amous  t lie  simple  fisher-swaias: 
$o  shrieking  owl,  no  night-crow  lodgeth  here, 

Not  is  oiu'  simple  pleasure  mixed  with  pains. 
Our  sports  begin  with  the  beginning  year; 
In  ealms,  to  pull  the  leaping  fish  to  land. 
In  roughs,  to  sing  and  dance  along  the  yellow  sand. 

in  contemplating  these  beautiful  islands,  and  the  peaceful 
round:  them,  I  could  hardly  realize  that  these  were  the 
M Stiii  "vexed  Bermoothes",  of  Shakspeare,  once  the  dread  of 
manners,  and  infamous  in  the  narratives  of  the  early  dis- 
coverers, for  the  dangers  and  disasters  which  beset  them. 
Such,  however,  was  the  case:  and  the  islands  derived  addi- 
tional interest  in  my  eyes,  from  fancying  that  I  could  trace  in 
their  early  history,  and  in  the  superstitious  notions  connected 
with  them,  some  of  the  elements  of  Shakspeare's  wild  and 
beautiful  drama  of  the  Tempest.  I  shall  take  the  liberty  of 
citing  a  few  historical  facts,  in  support  of  this  idea,  which  may 
claim  some  additional  attention  from  the  American  reader,  as 
being  connected  with  the  first  settlement  of  Virginia. 

At  the  time  when  Shakspeare  was  in  the  fulness  of  his 
talent,  and  seizing  upon  every  thing  that  could  furnish  aliment 
to  his  imagination,  the  colonization  of  Virginia  was  a  favorite 
object  of  enterprise  among  people  of  condition  in  England,  and 
several  of  the  courtiers  of  the  court  of  Queen  Elizabeth  were 
personally  engaged  in  it.  In  the  year  1609  a  noble  armament 
of  nine  ships  and  five  hundred  men  sailed  for  the  relief  of  the 
colony.  It  was  commanded  by  Sir  George  Somers,  as  admiral, 
a  gaiJant  and  generous  gentleman,  above  sixty  years  of  age, 
and  possessed  of  an  ample  fortune,  yet  still  bent  upon  hardy 
enterprise,  and  ambitious  of  signalizing  himself  in  the  service 
of  his  country. 

On  board  of  his  flag-ship,  the  Sea-Vulture,  sailed  also  Sir 
Thomas  Gates,  lieutenant-general  of  the  colony.  The  voyage 
was  long  and  boisterous.  On  the  twenty-fifth  of  July,  the 
admiral's  ship  was  separated  from  the  rest,  in  a  hurricane. 
For  several  days  she  was  driven  about  at  the  mercy  of  the  ele- 
ments, and  so  strained  ami  racked,  that  her  seams  yawned 
open,  and  her  hold  was  half  filled  with  water.  The  storm 
subsided,  but  left  her  a  mere  foundering  wreck.  The  crew 
stood  in  the  hold  to  their  waists  in  water,  vainly  endeavor- 
ing 10  bail  her  with  kettles,  buckets,  and  other  -  The 
leaks  rapidly  gained  on  them,  while  their  strength  was  as 
rapidly   declining.      I                  all  hope  of   keeping  the  ship 


112  W0LFERT8  ROOST  AND    MISCELLANIES. 

afloa-,  until  they  should  reach  the  American  coast ;  and  wearied 
with  fruitless  toil,  determined,  in  their  despair,  to  give  up  all 
farther  attempt,  shut  down  the  hatches,  and  abandon  them- 
selves to  Providence.  Some,  who  had  spirituous  liquors,  or 
4 '  comf ortable  waters,"  as  the  old  record  quaintly  terms  them, 
brought  them  forth,  and  shared  them  with  their  comrades, 
and  they  all  drank  a  sad  farewell  to  one  another,  as  men  who 
were  soon  to  part  company  in  this  world. 

In  this  moment  of  extremity,  the  worthy  admiral,  who  kept 
sleepless  watch  from  the  high  stern  of  the  vessel,  gave  the 
thrilling  cry  of  "land!"  All  rushed  on  deck,  in  a  frenzy  of 
joy,  and  nothing  now  was  to  be  seen  or  heard  on  board,  but 
the  transports  of  men  who  felt  as  if  rescued  from  the  grave. 
It  is  true  the  land  in  sight  would  not,  in  ordinary  circum- 
stances, have  inspired  much  self-gratulation.  It  could  be 
nothing  else  but  the  group  of  islands  called  after  their  dis- 
coverer, one  Juan  Bermudas,  a  Spaniard,  but  stigmatized 
among  the  mariners  of  those  days  as  "  the  islands  of  devils!" 
"For  the  islands  of  the  Bermudas,"  says  the  old  narrative  of 
this  voyage,  ' '  as  every  man  knoweth  that  hath  heard  or  read 
of  them,  were  never  inhabited  by  any  Christian  or  heathen 
people,  but  were  ever  esteemed  and  reputed  a  most  prodigious 
and  inchanted  place,  affording  nothing  but  gusts,  stormes,  and 
foul  weather,  which  made  every  navigator  and  mariner  to 
avoide  them,  as  Scylla  and  Charybdis,  or  as  they  would  shun 
the  Divell  himself."* 

Sir  George  Somers  and  his  tempest-tossed  comrades,  how- 
ever, hailed  them  with  rapture,  as  if  they  had  been  a  terres- 
trial paradise.  Every  sail  was  spread,  and  every  exertion 
made  to  urge  the  foundering  ship  to  land.  Before  long,  she 
struck  upon  a  rock.  Fortunately,  the  late  stormy  winds  had 
subsided,  and  there  was  no  surf.  A  swelling  wave  lifted  her 
from  off  the  rock,  and  bore  her  to  another ;  and  thus  she  was 
borne  on  from  rock  to  rock,  until  she  remained  wedged  be- 
tween two,  as  firmly  as  if  set  upon  the  stocks.  The  boats  were 
immediately  lowered,  and,  though  the  shore  was  above  a  mile 
distant,  the  whole  crew  were  landed  in  safety. 

Every  one  had  now  his  task  assigned  him.  Some  made  all 
haste  to  unload  the  ship,  before  she  should  go  to  pieces ;  some 
constructed  wigwams  of  palmetto  leaves,  and  others  ranged 
the  island  in  quest  of  wood  and  water.     To  their  surprise  and 


*  "  A  Plaine  1)      nption  of  the  Barmudas. 


THE  BERMUDAS.  L13 

joy,  they  found  it  far  different  from  the  desolate  and  frightful 
place  they  had  been  taught,  by  seamen's  stories,  to  expect.  It 
was  well- wooded  and  fertile ;  there  were  birds  of  various  kinds, 
and  herds  of  swine  roaming  about,  the  progeny  of  a  number 
that  had  swam  ashore,  in  former  years,  from  a  Spanish  wreck. 
The  island  abounded  with  turtle,  and  great  quantities  of  their 
eggs  were  to  be  found  among  the  rocks.  The  bays  and  inlets 
were  full  of  fish;  so  tame,  that  if  any  one  stepped  into  the 
water,  they  would  throng  around  him.  Sir  George  Somers,  in 
a  little  while,  caught  enough  with  hook  and  line  to  furnish  a 
meal  to  his  whole  ship's  company.  Some  of  them  were  so 
large,  that  two  were  as  much  as  a  man  could  carry.  Craw- 
fish, also,  were  taken  in  abundance.  The  air  was  soft  and 
salubrious,  and  the  sky  beautifully  serene.  Waller,  in  his 
"  Summer  Islands,"  has  given  us  a  faithful,  picture  of  the 
climate : 

"  For  the  kind  spring,  (which  but  salutes  us  here,) 
Inhabits  these,  and  courts  them  all  the  year: 
Ripe  fruits  and  blossoms  on  the  same  trees  live; 
At  once  they  promise,  and  at  once  they  give: 
So  sweet  the  air,  so  moderate  the  clime, 
None  sickly  lives,  or  dies  before  his  time. 
Heaven  sure  has  kept  this  spot  of  earth  uncursed, 
To  shew  how  all  things  were  created  first." 

We  may  imagine  the  feelings  of  the  shipwrecked  mariners, 
on  finding  themselves  cast  by  stormy  seas  upon  so  happy  a 
coast;  where  abundance  was  to  be  had  without  labor;  where 
what  in  other  climes  constituted  the  costly  luxuries  of  the  rich, 
were  within  every  man's  reach ;  and  where  life  promised  to  be 
a  mere  holiday.  Many  of  the  common  sailors,  especially,  de- 
clared they  desired  no  better  lot  than  to  pass  the  rest  of  their 
lives  on  this  favored  island. 

The  commanders,  however,  were  not  so  ready  to  console 
themselves  with  mere  physical  comforts,  for  the  Severn  n<*e 
from  the  enjoyment  of  cultivated  life,  and  all  the  objects  of 
honorable  ambition.  Despairing  of  the  arrival  of  any  chance 
ship  on  these  shunned  and  dreaded  islands,  they  fitted  out  the 
long-boat,  making  a  deck  of  the  ship's  hatches,  and  having 
manned  her  with  eight  picked  men,  despatched  her,  under  the 
command  of  an  able  and  hardy  mariner,  named  Raven,  to 
proceed  to  Virginia,  and  procure  shipping  to  be  sent  to  their 
relief. 

While  waiting  m  anxious  idleness  for  the  arrival  of  the 


114  VOLFJSltt  WI>   MISGBLLANIE8. 

looked-fo    aid,  dii  between  Sir  George  Somer 

and  Sir  TLianas  Gates,  originating,  very  probably,  in  jealous} 
of  the  lead  which  the  nautical  experience  and  professional 
station  of  the  admiral  gave  him  in  the  present  emergency. 
Each  commander,  of  course,  had  his  adherents:  these  dissen- 
sions ripened  into  a  complete  schism;  and  this  handful  of  ship- 
wrecked men,  thus  thrown  together,  on  an  uninhabited  island, 
separated  into  two  parties,  and  lived  asunder  in  bitter  fend,  as 
men  rendered  fickle  by  prosperity  instead  of  being  brought 
into  brotherhood  by  a  common  calamity. 

Weeks  and  months  elapsed,  without  bringing  the  looked-for 
aid  from  Virginia,  though  that  colony  was  within  but  a  few  days' 
sail.  Pears  were  now  entertained  that  the  long-boat  had  been 
either  swallowed  up  in  the  sea,  or  wrecked  on  some  savage 
.  one  or  other  of  which  most  probably  was  the  case,  as 
nothing  was  ever  heard  of  Raven  and  his  comrades. 

Each  party  now  Bet  to  work  to  build  a  vessel  for  itself  out  of 
the  cedar  with  which  the  island  abounded.  The  wreck  of  the 
Sea- Vulture  furnished  rigging,  and  various  other  articles ;  but 
they  had  no  iron  for  bolts,  and  other  fastenings ;  and  for  want 
of  pitch  and  tar,  they  payed  the  seams  of  their  vessels  with 
lime  and  turtle's  oil.  which  soon  dried,  and  became  as  hard  as 
stone. 

On  the  tenth  of  May,  1610,  they  set  sail,  having  been  about 
nine  months  on  the  island.  They  reached  Virginia  without 
farther  accident,  but  found  the  colony  in  great  distress  for  pro- 
os.  The  account  they  gaye  of  the  abundance  that  reigned 
in  the  Bermudas,  and  especially  of  the  herds  of  swine  that 
roamed  the  island,  determined  Lord  Delaware,  the  governor 
of  Virginia,  to  send  thither  for  supplies.  Sir  George  Somers, 
with  his  wonted  promptness  and  generosity,  offered  to  under- 
take what  was  still  considered  a  dangerous  voyage.  Accord- 
ingly, on  the  nineteenth  of  June,  he  set  sail,  in  his  own  cedar 
vessel  of  thirty  tons,  accompanied  by  another  small  vessel, 
commanded  by  Captain  Argall. 

The  gallant  Somers  was  doomed  again  to  be  tempest-tossed. 
His  companion  vessel  was  soon  driven  back  to  port,  but  he 
kept  the  sea;  and,  as  usual,  remained  at  his  post  on  deck,  in 
all  weathers.  His  voyage  was  long  and  boisterous,  and  the 
fatigues  and  exposures  which  he  underwent,  were  too  much 
for  a  frame  impaired  by  age,  and  by  previous  hardships.  He 
arrived  at  Bermudas  completely  exhausted  and  broken  down. 

His  nephew,  Captain  Mathew  Somers,  attended  him  in  his 


the  bfumvI'  115 

mnate  assiduity.     Finding  his  end  approach- 

ing,  the  veteran  called  his  men  together  i  >rted  them  to 

be  true  to  the  interests  of  Virginia;  to  ]  •  revisions  with 

all  possible  despatch,  and  hasten  back  to  the  relief  of  the 
colony. 

With  this  dying  charge,  he  gave  up  the  ghost,  leaving  nis 
nephew  and  crew  overwhelmed  with  grief  and  consternation. 
Their  first  thought  was  to  pay  honor  to  his  remains.  Opening 
the  body,  they  took  out  the  heart  and  entrails,  and  buried  them, 
erecting  a  cross  over  the  grave.  They  then  embalmed  the 
and  set  sail  with  it  for  England:  thus,  while  paying 
empty  honors  to  them  deceased  commander,  neglecting  his  ear- 
nest wish  and  dying  injunction,  that  they  should  return  with 
relief  to  Virginia. 

The  little  bark  arrived  safely  at  Whitechurch,  in  Dorsetshire, 
with  its  melancholy  freight.  The  body  of  the  worthy  Somers 
was  interred  with  the  military  honors  due  to  a  brave  soldier, 
and  many  volleys  were  fired  over  his  grave.  The  Bermudas 
have  since  received  the  name  of  the  Somer  Islands,  as  a  tribute 
to  his  memory. 

The  accounts  given  by  Captain  Mathew  Somers  and  his  crew 
of  the  delightful  climate,  and  the  great  beauty,  fertility,  and 
abundance  of  these  islands,  excited  the  zeal  of  enthusiasts,  and 
the  cupidity  of  speculators,  and  a  plan  was  set  on  foot  to  colo- 
nize them.  The  Virginia  company  sold  their  right  to  the 
islands  to  one  hundred  and  twenty  of  their  own  members,  who 
erected  themselves  into  a  distinct  corporation,  under  the  name 
of  the  ''Somer  Island  Society;"  and  Mr.  Richard  More  was  sent 
out,  in  1612,  as  governor,  with  sixty  men,  to  found  a  colony: 
and  this  leads  me  to  the  second  branch  of  this  research. 


THE  TEREE  KINGS  OF  BERMUDA. 

AND  TBEIR   TREASURE   OF  AMBERGRIS. 

At  the  time  that  Sir  George  Somers  was  preparing  to  launch 
his  cedar-built  bark,  and  sail  for  Virginia,  there  were  three  cul- 
amonghismen,  who  had  been  guilty  of  capital  offences. 
One  of  them  was  shot;  the  others,  named  Christopher  Carter 
and  Edward  Waters,  escaped.  Waters,  indeed,  made  a  very 
narrow  escape,  for  he  had  actually  been  tied  to  a  tree  to  be 
executed,  but  cut  the  rope  with  a  knife,   which  he  had  con- 


116  WOLFERT'S  ROOST  A2sV  MISCELLANIES. 

cealed  about  his  poison,  and  fled  to  the  woods,  where  he  was 
joined  by  Carter.  These  two  worthies  kept  themselves  con- 
cealed in  the  secret  parts  of  the  island,  until  the  departure  of 
the  two  vessels.  When  Sir  George  Somers  revisited  the 
island,  in  quest  of  supplies  for  the  Virginia  colony,  these  cul- 
prits hovered  about  the  landing-place,  and  succeeded  in  per- 
suading another  seaman,  named  Edward  Chard,  to  join  them, 
giving  him  the  most  seductive  pictures  of  the  ease  and  abun 
dance  in  which  they  revelled. 

When  the  bark  that  bore  Sir  George's  body  to  England  had 
faded  from  the  watery  horizon,  these  three  vagabonds  walked 
forth  in  their  majesty  and  might,  the  lords  and  sole  inhabi- 
tants of  these  islands.  For  a  time  their  little  commonwealth 
went  on  prosperously  and  happily.  They  built  a  house,  sowed 
corn,  and  the  seeds  of  various  fruits;  and  having  plenty  of 
hogs,  wild  fowl,  and  fish  of  all  kinds,  with  turtle  in  abundance, 
carried  on  their  tripartite  sovereignty  with  great  harmony  and 
much  feasting.  All  kingdoms,  however,  are  doomed  to  revo- 
lution, convulsion,  or  decay ;  and  so  it  fared  with  the  empire 
of  the  three  kings  of  Bermuda,  albeit  they  were  monarchs 
without  subjects.  In  an  evil  hour,  in  their  search  after  turtle, 
among  the  fissures  of  the  rocks,  they  came  upon  a  great  treas- 
ure of  ambergris,  which  had  been  cast  on  shore  by  the  ocean. 
Beside  a  number  of  pieces  of  smaller  dimensions,  there  was  one 
great  mass,  the  largest  that  had  ever  been  known,  weighing 
eighty  pounds,  and  which  of  itself,  according  to  the  market 
value  of  ambergris  in  those  days,  was  worth  about  nine  or  ten 
thousand  pounds ! 

From  that  moment,  the  happiness  and  harmony  of  the  three 
kings  of  Bermuda  were  gone  for  ever.     While  poor  devils,  with 

:  nothing  to  share  but  the  common  blessings  of  the  island, 
which  administered  to  present  enjoyment,  but  had  nothing  of 

''convertible  value,  they  were  loving  and  united :  but  here  was 
actual  wealth,  which  would  make  them  rich  men,  whenever 
they  could  transport  it  to  a  market. 

Adieu  the  delights  of  the  island !  They  now  became  flat  and 
insipid.  Each  pictured  to  himself  the  consequence  he  might 
now  aspire  to,  in  civilized  life,  could  he  once  get  there  with 
this  mass  of  ambergris.  No  longer  a  poor  Jack  Tar,  frolicking 
in  the  low  taverns  of  Wapping,  he  might  roll  through  London 
in  his  coach,  and  perchance  arrive,  like  Whittington,  at  the 
dignity  of  Lord  Mayor. 
With  riches  came  envy  and  covetousness.    Each  was  now 


THE  BERMUDAS.  117 

for  assuming  the  supreme  power,  and  getting  the  monopoly  of 
the  ambergris.  A  civil  war  at  length  broke  out :  Chard  and 
Waters  defied  each  other  to  mortal  combat,  and  the  kingdom 
of  the  Bermudas  was  on  the  point  of  being  deluged  with  royal 
blood.  Fortunately,  Carter  took  no  part  in  the  bloody  feud. 
Ambition  might  have  made  him  view  it  with  secret  exultation; 
for  if  either  or  both  of  his  brother  potentates  were  slain  in  the 
conflict,  he  would  be  a  gainer  in  purse  and  ambergris.  But  he 
dreaded  to  be  left  alone  in  this  uninhabited  island,  and  to  find 
himself  the  monarch  of  a  solitude:  so  he  secretly  purloined 
and  hid  the  weapons  of  the  belligerent  rivals,  who,  having 
no  means  of  carrying  on  the  war,  gradually  cooled  down  into 
a  sullen  armistice. 

The  arrival  of  Governor  More,  with  an  overpowering  force 
of  sixty  men,  put  an  end  to  the  empire.  He  took  possession  of 
the  kingdom,  in  the  name  of  the  Somer  Island  Company,  and 
forthwith  proceeded  to  make  a  settlement.  The  three  kings 
tacitly  relinquished  their  sway,  but  stood  up  stoutly  for 
their  treasure.  It  was  determined,  however,  that  they  had 
been  fitted  out  at  the  expense,  and  employed  in  the  service,  of 
the  Virginia  Company ;  that  they  had  found  the  ambergis 
while  in  the  lervice  of  that  company,  and  on  that  company's 
land ;  that  the  ambergis,  therefore,  belonged  to  that  company, 
or  rather  to  the  Somer  Island  Company,  in  consequence  of 
their  recent  purchase  of  the  island,  and  all  their  appurte- 
nances. Having  thus  legally  established  their  right,  and  being 
moreover  able  to  back  it  by  might,  the  company  laid  the  lion's 
paw  upon  the  spoil;  and  nothing  more  remains  on  historic 
record  of  the  Three  Kings  of  Bermuda,  and  their  treasure  of 
ambergris. 


The  reader  will  now  determine  whether  I  am  more  extrava- 
gant than  most  of  the  commentators  on  Shakspeare,  in  my 
surmise  that  the  story  of  Sir  George  Somers'  shipwreck,  and 
the  subsequent  occurrences  that  took  place  on  the  uninhabited 
island,  may  have  furnished  the  bard  with  some  of  the  elements 
of  his  drama  of  the  Tempest.  The  tidings  of  the  shipwreck, 
and  of  the  incidents  connected  with  it,  reached  England  not 
long  before  the  production  of  this  drama,  and  made  a  great 
sensation  there.  A  narrative  of  the  whole  matter,  from  which 
most  of  the  foregoing  particulars  are  extracted,  was  published 
at  the  time  in  London,  in  a  pamphlet  form,  and  could  not  fail 
to  be  eagerly  perused  by  Shakspeare,  and  to  make  a  vivid 


118  WOLFERTS  ROOST  AM)  MSGELLANIES. 

impression  on  his  fancy.  His  expression,  in  the  Tempest,  of 
k'the  still  vext  Bermoothes,"  accords  exactly  with  the  storm- 
beaten  character  of  those  islands.  The  enchantments-,  too, 
with  which  he  has  clothed  the  island  of  Prospero,  may  they 
not  be  traced  to  the  wild  and  superstitions  notions  entertained 
about  the  Bermudas?  I  have  already  cited  two  passages  from 
a  pamphlet  published  at  the  time,  showing  that  they  were 
esteemed  "a  most  prodigious  and  inchanted  place,"  and  the 
,  "  habitation  of  divells ;"  and  another  pamphlet,  published  shortly 
afterward,  observes :  ' '  And  whereas  it  is  reported  that  this  land 
of  the  Barmudas,  with  the  islands  about,  (which  are  many,  at 
least  a  hundred,)  are  inchanted  and  kept  with  evil  and  wicked 
spirits,  it  is  a  most  idle  and  false  report 

The  description,  too,  given  in  the  same  pamphlets,  of  the 
real  beauty  and  fertility  of  the  Bermudas,  and  of  their  serene 
and  happy  climate,  so  opposite  to  the  dangerous  and  inhospi- 
table character  with  which  they  had  been  stigmatized,  accords 
with  the  eulogium  of  Sebastian  on  the  island  of  Prospero : 

"Though  this  island  seem  t  uninhabitable,  and  almost  inaccessible,  it 

must  needs  be  of  subtle,  tender,  and  delicate  temperance.  The  air  breathes  upon  us 
here  most  sweetly.  Here  is  every  tiling  advantageous  to  life.  How  lush  and  lusty 
the  grass  looks!  how  green  1" 

I  think  too,  in  the  exulting  consciousness  of  ease,  security, 
and  abundance  felt  by  the  late  tempest-tossc"  mariners,  while 
revelling  in  the  plenteousness  of  the  island  tnd  their  inclina- 
tion to  remain  there,  released  from  the  lab  ■:%  the  cares,  and 
the  artificial  restraints  of  civilized  life,  I  can  see  something  of 
the  golden  commonwealth  of  honest  Gonzalo : 

"  Had  I  plantation  of  this  isle,  my  lord, 
And  were  the  king  of  it.  what  would  I  do* 
r  the  commonwealth  I  would  by  contraries 
Execute  all  things:   for  no  kind  of  traffic 
Would  I  admit;  no  name  of  magistrate; 
Letters  should  not  be  known;   riches,  poverty, 
And  use  of  service,  none;  contract,  succession, 
Bourn,  bound  of  land,  tilth,  vineyard,  none: 
No  use  of  metal,  corn,  or  wine,  or  oil: 
No  occupation ;  all  men  idle,  all. 

All  things  in  common,  nature  should  produce, 
Without  sweat  or  endeavor:  Treason,  felony, 
Sword,  pike,  knife,  gun.  or  need  of  any  engine. 
Would  I  not  have ;  but  nature  should  bring  forth, 
Of  its  own  kind,  all  foizon,  all  abundance, 
To  feed  my  innocent  people." 


*  "Newes  from  the  Barmudas;"  1612. 


PELATO  AND   THE  MERCHANT*  DAUGHTER.     119 

But  above  all,  in  the  three  fugitive  vagabonds  who  remained 
in  possession  of  the  island  of  Bermuda,  on  the  departure  of 
their  comrades,  and  in  their  squabbles  about  supremacy,  on  the 
finding  of  their  treasure,  I  see  typified  Sebastian,  Trinculo,  and 
their  worthy  companion  Caliban : 

"Trinculo,  the  king  and  all  our  company  being  drowned,  we  will  inherit  here"' 
•'  Monster,  I  will  kill  this  man ;  his  daughter  and  I  will  be  king  and  queen,  (save  our 
:  i  and  Triuculo  and  thyself  shall  be  viceroys. '' 

I  do  not  mean  to  hold  up  the  incidents  and  characters  in  the 
narrative  and  in  the  play  as  parallel,  or  as  being  strikingly 
similar :  neither  would  I  insinuate  that  the  narrative  suggested 
the  play ;  I  would  only  suppose  that  Shakspeare,  being  occupied 
about  that  time  on  the  drama  of  the  Tempest,  the  main  story 
of  which,  I  believe,  is  of  Italian  origin,  had  many  of  the  fanci- 
ful ideas  of  it  suggested  to  his  mind  by  the  shipwreck  of 
Sir  George  Somers  on  the  "still  vext  Bermothes,"  and  by  the 
popular  superstitions  connected  with  these  islands,  and  sud- 
denly put  in  circulation  by  that  event. 


PELAYO  AND  THE  MEKCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

It  is  the  common  lamentation  of  Spanish  historiographers, 
that,  for  an  obscure  and  melancholy  space  of  time  immediately 
succeeding  the  conquest  of  their  country  by  the  Moslems,  its 
history  is  a  mere  wilderness  of  dubious  facts,  groundless 
fables,  and  rash  exaggerations.  Learned  men,  in  cells  and 
cloisters,  have  worn  out  their  lives  in  vainly  endeavoring  to 
connect  incongruous  events,  and  to  account  for  startling 
improbabilities,  recorded  of  this  period.  The  worthy  Jesuit, 
Padre  Abarca.  declares  that,  for  more  than  forty  years  during 
which  ho  had  been  employed  in  theological  controversies,  he 
had  never  found  any  so  obscure  and  inexplicable  as  those 
which  rise  out  of  this  portion  of  Spanish  history,  and  that  the 
only  fruit  of  an  indefatigable,  prolix,  and  even  prodigious 
study  of  the  subject,  was  a  melancholy  and  mortifying  state 
of  indecision.* 

*  Padre  Pedro  Abarca.    Annies  <l»>  Aragon,  Anti  !:■ 


120  WOLFEKTS  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES 

During  this  apocryphal  period,  flourished  Pelayo,  the  deliv- 
erer of  Spain,  whose  name,  like  that  of  William  Wallace,  will 
ever  be  linked  with  the  glory  of  his  country,  but  linked,  in  like 
manner,  by  a  bond  in  which  fact  and  fiction  are  inextricably 
interwoven. 

The  quaint  old  chronicle  of  the  Moor  Basis,  which,  though 
wild  and  fanciful  in  the  extreme,  is  frequently  drawn  upon  for 
early  facts  by  Spanish  historians,  professes  to  give  the  birth, 
parentage,  and  whole  course  of  fortune  of  Pelayo,  without  the 
least  doubt  or  hesitation.  It  makes  him  a  son  of  the  Duke  of 
Cantabria,  and  descended,  both  by  father  and  mother's  side, 
from  the  Gothic  kings  of  Spain.  I  shall  pass  over  the  roman- 
tic story  of  his  childhood,  and  shall  content  myself  with  a 
scene  of  his  youth,  which  was  spent  in  a  castle  among  the 
Pyrenees,  under  the  eye  of  -his  widowed  and  noble-minded 
mother,  who  caused  him  to  be  instructed  in  everything 
befitting  a  cavalier  of  gentle  birth.  While  the  sons  of  the 
nobility  were  revelling  amid  the  pleasures  of  a  licentious 
court,  and  sunk  in  that  vicious  and  effeminate  indulgence 
which  led  to  the  perdition  of  unhappy  Spain,  the  youthful 
Pelayo,  in  his  rugged  mountain  school,  was  steeled  to  all  kinds 
of  hardy  exercise.  A  great  part  of  his  time  was  spent  in  hunt- 
ing the  bears,  the  wild  boars,  and  the  wolves,  with  which  the 
Pyrenees  abounded;  and  so  purely  and  chastely  was  he 
brought  up,  by  his  good  lady  mother,  that,  if  the  ancient 
chronicle  from  which  I  draw  my  facts  may  be  relied  on,  he 
had  attained  his  one-and-twentieth  year,  without  having  once 
sighed  for  woman ! 

Nor  were  his  hardy  contests  confined  to  the  wild  beasts  of 
the  forest.  Occasionally  he  had  to  contend  with  adversaries  of 
a  more  formidable  character.  The  skirts  and  denies  of  these 
border  mountains  were  often  infested  by  marauders  from  the 
Gallic  plains  of  Gascony.  The  Gascons,  says  an  old  chronicler, 
were  a  people  who  used  smooth  words  when  expedient,  but 
force  when  they  had  power,  and  were  ready  to  lay  their  hands 
on  every  thing  they  met.  Though  poor,  they  were  proud ;  for 
there  was  not  one  who  did  not  pride  himself  on  being  a  hijo- 
dalgo,  or  the  son  of  somebody. 

At  the  head  of  a  band  of  these  needy  hijodalgos  of  Gascony, 
was  one  Arnaud,  a  broken-down  cavalier.  He  and  four  of  his 
followers  were  well  armed  and  mounted ;  the  rest  were  a  set  of 
s< -unper-grounds  on  foot,  furnished  with  darts  and  javelins. 
They  were  the  terror  of  the  border ;  here  to-day  and  gone  to* 


PELAYO  AM)   THE  MERCHANTS  DAUGHTER.     Jlm 

morrow;  sometimes  in  one  pass,  sometimes  in  another.  They 
would  make  sudden  inroads  into  Spain,  scour  the  roads,  plun- 
der the  country,  and  were  over  the  mountains  and  far  away 
before  a  force  could  be  collected  to  pursue  them. 

Now  it  happened  one  day,  that  a  wealthy  burgher  of  Bor- 
deaux, who  was  a  merchant,  trading  with  Biscay,  set  out  on  a 
journey  for  that  province.  As  he  intended  to  sojourn  there 
for  a  season,  he  took  with  him  his  wife,  who  was  a  goodly 
dame,  and  his  daughter,  a  gentle  damsel,  of  marriageable  age, 
and  exceeding  fair  to  look  upon.  He  was  attended  by  a  trusty 
clerk  from  his  comptoir,  and  a  man  servant;  while  another 
servant  led  a  hackney,  laden  with  bags  of  money,  with  which 
he  intended  to  purchase  merchandise. 

When  the  Gascons  heard  of  this  wealthy  merchant  and  his 
convoy  passing  through  the  mountains,  they  thanked  their 
stars,  for  they  considered  all  peaceful  men  of  traffic  as  lawful 
spoil,  sent  by  providence  for  the  benefit  of  hidalgos  like  them- 
selves, of  valor  and  gentle  blood,  who  lived  by  the  sword. 
Placing  themselves  in  ambush,  in  a  lonely  defile,  by  which  the 
travellers  had  to  pass,  they  silently  awaited  their  coming.  In 
a  little  while  they  beheld  them  approaching.  The  merchant 
was  a  fair,  portly  man,  in  a  buff  surcoat  and  velvet  cap.  His 
looks  bespoke  the  good  cheer  of  his  native  city,  and  he  was 
mounted  on  a  stately,  well-fed  steed,  while  his  wife  and  daugh- 
ter paced  gently  on  palfreys  by  his  side. 

The  travellers  had  advanced  some  distance  in  the  defile, 
when  the  Bandoleros  rushed  forth  and  assailed  them.  The 
merchant,  though  but  little  used  to  the  exercise  of  arms,  and 
unwieldy  in  his  form,  yet  made  valiant  defence,  having  his 
wife  and  daughter  and  money-bags  at  hazard.  He  was  wounded 
in  two  places,  and  overpowered ;  one  of  his  servants  was  slain, 
the  other  took  to  flight. 

The  freebooters  then  began  to  ransack  for  spoil,  but  were  dis- 
appointed at  not  finding  the  wealth  they  had  expected.  Put- 
ting their  swords  to  the  breast  of  the  trembling  merchant,  they 
demanded  where  he  had  concealed  his  treasure,  and  learned 
from  him  of  the  hackney  that  was  following,  laden  with  money. 
Overjoyed  at  this  intelligence,  they  bound  their  captives  to 
trees,  and  awaited  the  arrival  of  the  golden  spoil. 

On  this  same  day,  Pelayo  was  out  with  Ins  huntsmen  among 
the  mountains,  and  had  taken  his  stand  on  a  rock,  at  a  narrow 
pass,  to  await  the  sallying  forth  of  a  wild  boar.  Close  by  him 
was  a  page,  conducting  a  horse,  and  at  the  saddle-bow  hung 


122  WOLFEUTS  ROOST  AND    MLSCELLAN IMS. 

his  armor,  for  he  was  always  prepared  for  ftght  among  these 
border  mountains.  While  thus  posted,  the  servant  of  the  mer- 
chant came  flying  from  the  robbers.  On  beholding  Pelayo,  he 
fell  on  his  knees,  and  implored  his  life,  for  he  supposed  him  to 
be  one  of  the  band.  It  was  some  time  before  he  could  be  re- 
lieved from  his  terror,  and  made  to  tell  his  story.  When 
Pelayo  heard  of  the  robbers,  he  concluded  they  were  the  crew 
of  Gascon  hidalgos,  upon  the  scamper.  Taking  his  armor  from 
the  page,  he  put  on  his  helmet,  slung  his  buckler  round  his 
neck,  took  lance  in  hand,  and  mounting  his  steed,  compelled 
the  trembling  servant  to  guide  him  to  the  scene  of  action.  At 
the  same  time  he  ordered  the  page  to  seek  his  huntsmen,  and 
summon  them  to  his  assistance. 

When  the  robbers  saw  Pelayo  advancing  through  the  forest, 
with  a  single  attendant  on  foot,  and  beheld  his  rich  armor 
sparkling  in  the  sun,  they  thought  a  new  prize  had  fallen  into 
their  hands,  and  Arnaud  and  two  of  his  companions,  mounting 
their  horses,  advanced  to  meet  him.  As  they  approached, 
Pelayo  stationed  himself  in  a  narrow  pass  between  two  rocks, 
where  he  could  only  be  assailed  in  front,  and  bracing  his  buck- 
ler, and  lowering  his  lance,  awaited  their  coming. 

'  •  Who  and  what  are  ye,"  cried  he,  ' '  and  what  seek  ye  in  this 
land?" 

"We  are  huntsmen,"  replied  Arnaud,  "and  lo!  our  game 

runs  into 'our  toilsr 

"By  my  faith,"  replied  Pelayo,  "thou  wilt  find  the  game 
more  readily  roused  than  taken :  have  at  thee  for  a  villain  I" 

So  saying,  he  put  spurs  to  his  horse,  and  ran  full  speed  upon 
him.  The  Gascon,  not  expecting  so  sudden  an  attack  from  a 
single  horseman,  was  taken  by  surprise.  He  hastily  couched 
his  lance,  but  it  merely  glanced  on  the  shield  of  Pelayo,  who 
sent  his  own  through  the  middle  of  his  breast,  and  threw  him 
out  of  his  saddle  to  the  earth.  One  of  the  other  robbers  made 
at  Pelayo,  and  wounded  him  slightly  in  the  side,  but  received 
a  blow  from  the  sword  of  the  latter,  which  cleft  his  skull-cap, 
and  sank  into  his  brain.  His  companion,  seeing  him  fall,  put 
spurs  to  his  steed,  and  galloped  off  through  the  forest. 

Beholding  several  other  robbers  on  foot  coming  up,  Pelayo 
returned  to  his  station  between  the  rocks,  where  he  was  as- 
sailed by  them  all  at  once.  He  received  two  of  their  darts  on 
his  buckler,  a  javelin  razed  his  cuirass,  and  glancing  down, 
wounded  his  horse.  Pelayo  then  rushed  forth,  and  struck  one 
of  the  robbers  dead:  the  others,  beholding  several  huntsmen 


PELAYO  AND   THE    MERCHANTS   DAUGHTER.      [23 
advancing,  book  to  flight,  but  were  pursued,  and  several  of  them 


taken. 


The  good  merchant  of  Bordeaux  and  his  family  beheld  this 
scene  with  trembling- and  amazement,  for  never  Ik  id  they  looked 
upon  such  feats  of  arms.  They  considered  Don  Pelayo  as  a 
leader  of  some  rival  band  of  robbers;  and  when  the  bonds  were 
loosed  by  which  they  were  tied  to  the  trees,  they  fell  at  his  feet 
and  implored  mercy.  The  females  were  soonest  undeceived, 
especially  the  daughter;  for  the  damsel  was  struck  with  the 
noble  countenance  and  gentle  demeanor  of  Pelayo,  and  said  to 
herself:  "Surely  nothing  evil  can  dwell  in  so  goodly  and  gra- 
cious a  form." 

Pelayo  now  sounded  his  horn,  which  echoed  from  rock  to 
rock,  and  was  answered  by  shouts  and  horns  from  various 
parts  of  the  mountains.  The  merchant's  heart  misgave  him  at 
these  signals,  and  especially  when  he  beheld  more  than  forty 
men  gathering  from  glen  and  thicket.  They  were  clad  in  hunt- 
ers5 dresses,  and  armed  with  boar-spears,  darts,  and  hunting- 
swords,  and  many  of  them  led  hounds  in  long  leashes.  All 
this  was  a  new  and  wild  scene  to  the  astonished  merchant;  nor 
were  his  fears  abated,  when  he  saw  his  servant  approaching 
with  the  hackney,  laden  with  money-bags;  "for  of  a  cer- 
tainty, "  said  he  to  himself,  "this  will  be  too  tempting  a  spoil 
for  these  wild  hunters  of  the  mountains." 

Pelayo,  however,  took  no  more  notice  of  the  gold  than  if  it 
had  been  so  much  dross ;  at  which  the  honest  burgher  mar- 
velled exceedingly,  lie  ordered  that  the  wounds  of  the  mer- 
chant should  be  dressed,  and  his  own  examined.  On  taking 
off  his  cuirass,  his  wound  was  found  to  be  but  slight ;  but  his 
men  were  so  exasperated  at  seeing  his  blood,  that  they  would 
have  put  the  captive  robbers  to  instant  death,  had  he  not  for- 
bidden them  to  do  them  any  harm. 

The  huntsmen  now  made  a  great  fire  at  the  foot  of  a  tree, 
and  bringing  a   boar  which  they  had  killed,  cut  off  portions 
ed  them,  or  broiled  them  ontl  Then  draw- 

ing forth  loaves  of  bread  from  their  wallets,  they  devoured 
their  food  half  raw.  with  the  hungry  relish  of  huntsmen  and 
mountaineers.  The  merchant,  his  wife,  and  daughter,  looked 
at  all  this,  and  wondered,  for  they  had  never  beheld  so  savage 

Pelayo  then  inquired  of  them  if  they  did  not  desire  to 
the\  were  too  much  in  awe  of  him  to  decline,  though  the 
aloathingat  the  thoughl  of  partaking  of  this  hunter's  fere; 


124  WOLFERTS  BOOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 

but  he  ordered  a  linen  cloth  to  be  spread  under  the  shade  of  a 
great  oak,  on  the  grassy  margin  of  a  clear  running  stream ; 
and  to  their  astonishment,  they  were  served,  not  with  the  flesh 
of  the  boar,  but  with  dainty  cheer,  such  as  the  merchant  had 
scarcely  hoped  to  find  out  of  the  walls  of  his  native  city  of 
Bordeaux. 

The  good  burgher  was  of  a  community  renowned  for  gas- 
tronomic prowess:  his  fears  having  subsided,  his  appetite 
was  now  awakened,  and  he  addressed  himself  manfully  to 
the  viands  that  were  set  before  him.  His  daughter,  how- 
ever, could  not  eat :  her  eyes  were  ever  and  anon  stealing  to 
gaze  on  Pelayo,  whom  she  regarded  with  gratitude  for  his  pro- 
tection, and  admiration  for  his  valor ;  and  now  that  he  had 
laid  aside  his  helmet,  and  she  beheld  his  lofty  countenance, 
glowing  with  manly  beauty,  she  thought  him  something  more 
than  mortal.  The  heart  ef  the  gentle  donzella,  says  the  ancient 
chronicler,  was  kind  and  yielding ;  and  had  Pelayo  thought  fit 
to  ask  the  greatest  boon  that  love  and  beauty  could  bestow — 
doubtless  meaning  her  fair  hand — she  could  not  have  had  the 
cruelty  to  say  him  nay.  Pelayo,  however,  had  no  such 
thoughts :  the  love  of  woman  had  never  yet  entered  his  heart ; 
and  though  he  regarded  the  damsel  as  the  fairest  maiden  he 
had  ever  beheld,  her  beauty  caused  no  perturbation  in  his 
breast. 

When  the  repast  was  over,  Pelayo  offered  to  conduct  the 
merchant  and  his  family  through  the  defiles  of  the  mountains, 
lest  they  should  be  molested' by  any  of  the  scattered  band  of 
robbers.  The  bodies  of  the  slain  marauders  were  buried,  and 
the  corpse  of  the  servant  was  laid  upon  one  of  the  horses  cap- 
tured in  the  battle.  Having  formed  their  cavalcade,  they  pur- 
sued their  way  slowly  up  one  of  the  steep  and  winding  passes 
of  the  Pyrenees. 

Toward  sunset,  they  arrived  at  the  dwelling  of  a  holy  hermit. 
It  was  hewn  out  of  the  living  rock ;  there  was  a  cross  over  the 
door,  and  before  it  was  a  great  spreading  oak,  with  a  sweet 
spring  of  wafer  at  its  foot.  The  body  of  the  faithful  servant 
who  had  fallen  in  the  defence  of  his  lord,  was  buried  close  by 
the  wall  of  this  sacred  retreat,  and  the  hermit  promised  to  per- 
form masses  for  the  repose  of  his  soul.  Then  Pelayo  obtained 
from  the  holy  father  consent  that  the  merchant's  wife  and 
daughter  should  pass  the  night  within  his  cell ;  and  the  hermit 
made  beds  of  moss  for  them,  and  gave  them  his  benediction ; 
but  the  damsel  found  little  rest,  so  much  were  her  thoughts 


PELAYO  AND   THE  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER      125 

occupied  by  the  youthful  champion  who  had  rescued  her  from 
death  or  dishonor. 

Pelayo,  however,  was  visited  by  no  such  wandering  of  the 
mind;  but,  wrapping  himself  in  his  mantle,  slept  soundly  by 
the  fountain  under  the  tree.  At  midnight,  when  every  thing 
was  buried  in  deep  repose,  he  was  awakened  from  his  sleep 
and  beheld  the  hermit  before  him,  with  the  beams  of  the  moon 
shining  upon  his  silver  hah'  and  beard. 

••This  is  no  time,"  said  the  latter,  "to  be  sleeping;  arise  and 
listen  to  my  words,  and  hear  of  the  great  work  for  which  thou 
art  chosen  I" 

Then  Pelayo  arose  and  seated  himself  on  a  rock,  and  the 
hermit  continued  his  discourse. 

"  Behold, "  said  he,  "the  ruin  of  Spain  is  at  hand !  It  will  be 
delivered  into  the  hands  of  strangers,  and  w^ill  become  a  prey 
to  the  spoiler.  Its  children  will  be  slain  or  carried  into  capti- 
vity ;  or  such  as  may  escape  these  evils,  will  harbor  with  the 
beasts  of  the  forest  or  the  eagles  of  the  mountain.  The  thorn 
and  bramble  will  spring  up  where  now  are  seen  the  corn- 
field, the  vine,  and  the  olive ;  and  hungry  wolves  will  roam  in 
place  of  peaceful  flocks  and  herds.  But  thou,  my  son !  tarry 
not  thou  to  see  these  things,  for  thou  canst  not  prevent  them. 
Depart  on  a  pilgrimage  to  the  sepulchre  of  our  blessed  Lord  in 
Palestine ;  purify  thyself  by  prayer ;  enroll  thyself  in  the  order 
of  chivalry,  and  prepare  for  the  great  work  of  the  redemption 
of  thy  country ;  for  to  thee  it  will  be  given  to  raise  it  from  the 
depth  of  its  affliction." 

Pelayo  would  have  inquired  farther  into  the  evils  thus  fore- 
told, but  the  hermit  rebuked  his  curiosity. 

"  Seek  not  to  know  more,"  said  he,  "than  hen  von  is  pleased 
to  reveal.  Clouds  and  darkness  cover  its  designs,  and  pro- 
phecy is  never  permitted  to  lift  up  but  in  part  the  veil  that 
rests  upon  the  future." 

The  hermit  ceased  to  speak,  and  Pelayo  laid  himself  down, 
again  to  take  repose,  but  sleep  was  a  strange  i  bo  his  eyes. 

When  the  first  rays  of  the  rising  sun  shone  upon  the  tops  of 
the  mountains,  the  travellers  assembled  round  the  fountain 
beneath  the  tree  and  made  their  morning's  repast.  Then, 
having  received  the  benediction  of  the  hermit,  they  departed 
in  the  freshness  of  the  day.  and  descended  along  the  hollow 
defiles  leading  into  the  interior  of  Spain.  The  good  merchant 
was  refreshed  by  sleep  and  by  his  morning's  meal:  and  when 
he  beheld  his  wife  and  daughter  thus  secure  by  his  side,  and 


126  WOLFERT&   ROOST  AND    VJSVELLANIl 

the  hackney  laden  with  his  treasure  elose  behind  him,  his 
heart  was  light  in  his  bosom,  and  he  carolled  a  chanson  as  he 
went,  and  the  woodlands  echoed  to  his  song.  But  Pelayd  rode 
in  silence,  for  he  revolved  in  his  mind  the  portentous  words  of 
the  hermit ;  and  the  daughter  of  the  merchant  ever  and  anon 
stole  looks  at  him  full  of  tenderness  and  admiration,  and  deep 
s  betrayed  the  agitation  of  her  bosom. 

At  length  they  came  to  the  foot  of  the  mountains,  wiiere  the 
forests  and  the  rocks  terminated,  and  an  open  and  secure 
country  lay  before  the  travellers.  Here  they  halted,  for  their 
roads  were  widely  different.  When  they  came  to  part,  the 
merchant  and  his  wife  were  loud  in  thanks  ami  benodid 
and  the  good  burgher  would  fain  have  given  Pelayo  the  largest 
of  Ins  sacks  of  gold;  but  the  young  man  put  it  aside  with  a 
smile.  "  Silver  and  gold,"  said  he,  ik  need  I  not,  but  if  I  have 
<  (1  aught  at  thy  hands,  give  me  thy  prayers,  for  the 
prayers  of  a  good  man  are  above  all  price." 

In  the  mean  time  the  daughter  had  spoken  never  a  word. 
At  length  she  raised  her  eyes,  which  Avere  filled  with  tears,  and 
looked  timidly  at  Pelayo,  and  her  bosom  throbbed ;  and  after  a 
violent  struggle  between  st  jo  ill;-  affection  and  virgin  modesty, 
her  heart  relieved  itself  by  wo. 

"Senor,"  said  she,  '"I  know  that  I  am  unworthy  of  the 
notice  of  so  noble  a  cavalier;  but  suffer  me  to  place  this  ring 
upon  a  finger  of  that  hand  which  has  so  bravely  rescued  us 
from  death;  and  when  you  regard  it,  you  may  consider  it 
as  a  memorial  of  your  own  valor,  and  not  of  one  who  is  too 
humble  to  be  remembered  by  you. " 

With  these  words,  she  drew  a  ring  from  her  finger  and  put 
it  upon  the  finger  of  Pelayo;  and  having  done  this,  she  blushed 
and  trembled  at  her  own  boldness,  and  stood  as  one  abashed, 
with  her  eyes  cast  down  upon  the  earth. 

Pelayo  was  moved  at  the  words  of  the  simple  maiden,  and  at 
the  touch  of  her  fair  hand,  and  at  her  beauty,  as  she  stood  thus  ; 
trembling  and  in  tears  before  him ;  but  as  yet  he  knew  nothing 
of  woman,  and  his  heart  was  free  from  the  snares  of  love. 
"Amiga,"  (friend,)  said  he,  "I  accept  thy  present,  and  will 
wear  it  in  remembrance  of  thy  goodness ;"  so  saying,  he  kissed 
her  on  the  cheek. 

The  damsel  was  cheered  by  these  words,  and  hoped  that  she 
had  awakened  some  tenderness  in  his  bosom;  but  it  was  no 
such  thing,  says  the  grave  old  chronicler,  for  his  heart  was 


TttR.KNIGHT  OF  MALTA.  127 

devoted  to  higher  and  more  sacred  matters;  yet  certain  it  is, 
that  he  always  guarded  well  that  ring. 

When  they  parted,  Pelayo  remained  with  his  huntsmen  on  a 
cliff,  watching  that  no  evil  befell  them,  until  they  were  far 
beyond  the  skirts  of  the  mountain;  and  the  damsel  often 
tinned  to  look  at  him,  until  she  could  no  longer  discern  him, 
for  the  distance  and  the  tears  that  dimmed  her  eyes. 

And  for  that  he  had  accepted  her  ring,  says  the  ancient 
chronicler,  she  considered  herself  wedded  to  him  in  her  heart, 
and  would  never  marry ;  nor  could  she  be  brought  to  look  with 
eyes  of  affection  upon  any  other  man;  but  for  the  true  love 
which  she  bore  Pelayo,  she  lived  and  died  a  virgin.  And  she 
composed  a  book  which  treated  of  love  and  chivalry,  and  the 
temptations  of  this  mortal  life;  and  one  part  discoursed  of 
celestial  matters,  and  it  was  called  c '  The  Contemplations  of 
Love ;"  because  at  the  time  she  wrote  it,  she  thought  of  Pelayo, 
and  of  his  having  accepted  her  jewel  and  called  her  by  the 
gentle  appellation  of  "Amiga."  And  often  thinking  of  him  in 
tender  sadness,  and  of  her  never  having  beheld  him  more,  she 
would  take  the  book  and  would  read  it  as  if  in  his  stead ;  and 
while  she  repeated  the  words  of  love  which  it  contained,  she 
would  endeavor  to  fancy  them  uttered  by  Pelayo,  and  that  he 
stood  before  her. 


THE  KNIGHT  OF  MALTA. 

TO  THE  EDITOR  OF  THE  KNICKERBOCKER 

Sir  :  In  the  course  of  a  tour  which  I  made  in  Sicily,  in  the 
days  of  my  juvenility,  I  passed  some  little  time  at  the  ancient 
city  of  Catania,  at  the  foot  of  Mount  iEtna.     Here  I  became 

acquainted  with  the  Chevalier  L ,  an  old  Knight  of  Malta. 

It  was  not  many  years  after  the  time  that  Napoleon  had  dis- 
lodged the  knights  from  their  island,  and  he  still  wore  the 
insignia  of  his  order.  He  was  not,  however,  one  of  those 
reliques  of  that  once  chivalrous  body,  who  had  been  described 
as  "a  few  worn-out  old  men,  creeping  about  certain  parts  of 
Europe,  with  the  Maltese  cross  on  their  breasts ;"  on  the  contrary, 
though  advanced  in  life,  his  form  was  still  light  and  vigorous ; 
he  had  a  pale,  thin,  intellectual  visage,  with  a  high  forehead, 
and  a  bright,  visionary  eye.     He  seemed  to  take  a  fancy  to  me, 


128  WOLFERTS  ROOST  AND   MISCELLANIES. 

as  I  certainly  did  to  him,  and  we  soon  became  intimate.  I 
visited  him  occasionally,  at  his  apartments,  in  the  wing  of  an 
old  palace,  looking  toward  Mount  ^Etna.  He  was  an  antiquary, 
a  virtuoso,  and  a  connoisseur.  His  rooms  were  decorated  with 
mutilated  statues,  dug  up  from  Grecian  and  Roman  ruins ;  old 
vases,  lachrymals,  and  sepulchral  lamps.  He  had  astronomical 
and  chemical  instruments,  and  black-letter  books,  in  various 
languages.  I  found  that  he  had  dipped  a  little  in  chimerical 
studies,  and  had  a  hankering  after  astrology  and  alchymy. 
He  affected  to  believe  in  dreams  and  visions,  and  delighted  in 
the  fanciful  Rosicrucian  doctrines.  I  cannot  persuade  myself, 
however,  that  he  really  believed  in  all  these :  I  rather  think  he 
loved  to  let  his  imagination  carry  him  away  into  the  boundless 
fairy  land  which  they  unfolded. 

In  company  with  the  chevalier,  I  took  several  excursions  on 
horseback  about  the  environs  of  Catania,  and  the  picturesque 
skirts  of  Mount  ^Etna.  One  of  these  led  through  a  village, 
which  had  sprung  up  on  the  very  tract  of  an  ancient  eruption, 
the  houses  being  built  of  lava.  At  one  time  we  passed,  for 
some  distance,  along  a  narrow  lane,  between  two  high  dead 
convent  walls.  It  was  a  cut-throat-looking  place,  in  a  country 
where  assassinations  are  frequent;  and  just  about  midway 
through  it,  we  observed  blood  upon  the  pavement  and  the 
walls,  as  if  a  murder  had  actually  been  committed  there. 

The  chevalier  spurred  on  his  horse,  until  he  had  extricated 
himself  completely  from  this  suspicious  neighborhood.  He 
then  observed,  that  it  reminded,  him  of  a  similar  blind  alley  in 
Malta,  infamous  on  account  of  the  many  assassinations  that 
had  taken  place  there ;  concerning  one  of  which,  he  related  a 
long  and  tragical  story,  that  lasted  until  we  reached  Catania. 
It  involved  various  circumstances  of  a  wild  and  supernatural 
character,  but  which  he  assured  me  were  handed  down  in 
tradition,  and  generally  credited  by  the  old  inhabitants  of 
Malta. 

As  I  like  to  pick  up  strange  stories,  and  as  I  was  particularly 
struck  with  several  parts  of  this,  I  made  a  minute  of  it,  on  my 
return  to  my  lodgings.  The  memorandum  was  lost,  with 
several  others  of  my  travelling  papers,  and  the  story  had  faded 
from  my  mind,  when  recently,  in  perusing  a  French  memoir, 
I  came  suddenly  upon  it,  dressed  up,  it  is  true,  in  a  very 
different  manner,  but  agreeing  in  the  leading  facts,  and  given 
upon  the  word  of  that  famous  adventurer,  the  Count  Cagliostro, 

I  have  amused  myself,  during  a  snowy  day  in  the  country, 


THE  KNIGHT  OF   MALTA.  129 

by  rendering  it  roughly  into  English,  lor  the  entertainment  of 
a  youthful  circle  round  the  Christmas  fire.  It  was  well  received 
by  my  auditors,  who,  however,  are  rather  easily  pleased.  One 
proof  of  its  merits  is  that  it  sent  some  of  the  youngest  of  them 
quaking  to  their  beds,  and  gave  them  very  fearful  dreams. 
Hoping  that  it  may  have  the  same  effect  upon  your  ghost- 
Hunting  readers,  I  offer  it,  Mr.  Editor,  for  insertion  in  your 
Magazine.  I  would  observe,  that  wherever  I  have  modified 
the  French  version  of  the  story,  it  has  been  in  conformity  to 
some  recollection  of  the  narrative  of  my  friend,  the  Knight  of 
Malta. 

Your  obt.  servt., 

Geoffrey  Crayon. 


THE  GRAND  PRIOR   OF  MINORCA. 

A  VERITABLE  GHOST  STORY. 

"  Keep  my  wits,  heaven !    They  say  spirits  appear 
To  melancholy  minds,  and  the  graves  open!"— Fletcher. 

About  the  middle  of  the  last  century,  while  the  Knights  of 
Saint  John  of  Jerusalem  still  maintained  something  of  their 
ancient  state  and  sway  in  the  Island  of  Malta,  a  tragical  event 
took  place  there,  which  is  the  groundwork  of  the  following 
narrative. 

It  may  be  as  well  to  premise,  that  at  the  time  we  are  treating 
of,  the  order  of  Saint  John  of  Jerusalem,  grown  excessively 
wealthy,  had  degenerated  from  its  originally  devout  and  war 
like  character.  Instead  of  being  a  hardy  body  of  "monk- 
knights,"  sworn  soldiers  of  the  cross,  fighting  the  Paynim  in 
the  Holy  Land,  or  scouring  the  Mediterranean,  and  scourging 
the  Barbary  coasts  with  their  galleys,  or  feeding  the  poor,  and 
attending  upon  the  sick  at  their  hospitals,  they  led  a  life  of 
luxury  and  libertinism,  and  were  to  be  found  in  the  most 
voluptuous  courts  of  Europe.  The  order,  in  fact,  had  become 
a  mode  of  providing  for  the  needy  branches  of  the  Catholic 
aristocracy  of  Europe.  "A  commandery,"  we  are  told,  was  a 
splendid  provision  for  a  younger  brother;  and  men  of  rank, 
however  dissolute,  provided  they  belonged  to  the  highest  aristo- 
cracy, became  Knights  of  Malta,  just  as  they  did  bishops,  or 
colonels  of  reg  or  court   chamberlains.     After  a  brief 

residence  at  Mi  knighl     pa  >sed  the  rest  of  their  time  in 


130  WOLFERra  ROOST  AND  MISGELLANIh 

their  own  countries,  or  only  made  a  visit  now  and  then  to  the 
island.  While  there,  having  but  little  military  duty  to  per- 
form, they  beguiled  their  idleness  by  paying  attentions  to  the 
fair. 

There  was  one  circle  of  society,  however,  into  which  they 
could  not  obtain  currency.  This  was  composed  of  a  few  fami- 
nes of  the  old  Maltese  nobility,  natives  of  the  island.  These 
families,  not  being  permitted  to  enroll  any  of  their  members  in 
the  order,  affected  to  hold  no  intercourse  with  its  chevaliers; 
admitting  none  into  their  exclusive  coteries  but  the  Grand 
Master,  whom  they  acknowledged  as  their  sovereign,  and  the 
members  of  the  chapter  which  composed  his  council. 

To  indemnify  themselves  for  this  exclusion,  the  chevaliers 
carried  their  gallantries  into  the  next  class  of  society,  composed 
of  those  who  held  civil,  administrative,  and  judicial  situations. 
The  ladies  of  this  class  were  called  honorate,  or  honorables,  to 
distinguish  them  from  the  inferior  orders;  and  among  them 
were  many  of  superior  grace,  beauty,  and  fascination. 

Even  in  this  more  hospitable  class,  the  chevaliers  were  not 
all  equally  favored.  Those  of  Germany  had  the  decided  pre- 
ference, owing  to  their  fail-  and  i;  iplexions,  and  the 
kindliness  of  their  manners:  next  t<>  these  came  the  Spanish 
cavaliers,  on  account  of  their  profound  and  courteous  devotion, 
and  most  discreet  secrecy.  Singular  as  it  may  seem,  the  che- 
valiers of  France  fared  the  worst.  The  Maltese  ladies  dreaded 
their  volatility,  and  their  pronenes£  to  l>'>ast  of  their  amours, 
and  shunned  all  entanglement  with  them.  They  were  forced, 
therefore,  to  content  themselves  with  conquests  among  females 
of  the  lower  orders.  They  revenged  th<  .titer  the  gay 
French  manner,  by  making  the  "honorate'"  the  objects  of  all 
kinds  of  jests  and  mystifications ;  by  prying  into  their  tender 
affairs  with  the  more  favored  chevaliers,  and  making  them  the 
theme  of  song  and  epigram. 

About  this  time,  a  French  vessel  arrived  at  Malta,  bringing 
out  a  distinguished  personage  of  the  order  of  Saint  John  of 
Jerusalem,  the  Commander  de  Foulquerre,  who  came  to  solicit 
the  post  of  commander-in-chief  of  the  galleys.  He  was  descended 
from  an  old  and  warrior  line  of  French  nobility,  his  ancestors 
having  long  been  seneschals  of  Poitou,  and  claiming  descent 
from  the  first  counts  of  Angouleme. 

The  arrival  of  the  commander  caused  a  little  uneasiness 
among  the  peaceably  inclined,  for  he  bore  the  character,  in  the 
island,   of  being  fiery,   arrogant,  and  quarrelsome.    He  had 


THE  KNIGF1    01    MALTA.  131 

already  been  three  times  at  Malta,  and  on  eaeh  visit  had  a 
ized  himself  by  some  rash  and  deadly  affray. 
As  he  was  now  thirty-five  years  of  age,  however,  it  was  hoped 
that  time  might  have  taken  off  the  fiery  edge  of  his  spirit,  and 
That  he  might  prove  more  quiet  and  sedate  than  formerly. 
The  commander  set  up  an  establishment  befitting  his  rank  and 
pretensions;  for  he  arrogated  to  himself  an  importance  greatei 
even  than  that  of  the  Grand  Master.  His  house  immediately 
became  the  rallying  place  of  all  the  young  French  chevaliers. 
They  informed  him  of  all  the  slights  they  had  experienced  01 
imagined,  and  indulged  their  petulant  and  satirical  vein  at  the 
expense  of  the  honorate  and  their  admirers.  The  chevaliers  of 
other  nations  soon  found  the  topics  and  tone  of  conversation  at 
the  commander's  irksome  and  offensive,  and  gradually  ceased 
to  visit  there.  The  commander  remained  the  head  of  a  national 
clique,  who  looked  up  to  him  as  their  model.  If  he  was  not  as 
boisterous  and  quarrelsome  as  formerly,  he  had  become  haughty 
and  overbearing.  He  was  fond  of  talking  over  his  past  affairs 
of  punctilio  and- bloody  duel.  When  walking  the  streets  he 
was  generally  attended  by  a  ruffling  train  of  young  French 
cavaliers,  who  caught  his  own  air  of  assumption  and  bravado. 
These  he  would  conduct  to  the  scenes  of  his  deadly  encounters, 
point  out  the  very  spot  where  each  fatal  lunge  had  been  given, 
and  dwell  vaingloriously  on  every  particular. 

Under  his  tuition,  the  young  French  chevaliers  began  to  add 
bluster  and  arrogance  to  their  former  petulance  and  levity; 
they  fired  up  on  the  most  trivial  occasions,  particularly  with 
those  who  had  been  most  successful  with  the  fair ;  and  would 
put  on  the  most  intolerable  drawcansir  airs.  The  other  che- 
valiers conducted  then  ith  all  possible  forbearance  and 
reserve ;  but  they  saw  it  would  be  impossible  to  keep  on  long, 
in  this  manner,  without  coming  to  an  open  rupture. 

Among  the  Spanish  cavaliers  was  one  named  Don  Luis  de 
Lima  Vasconcellos.  He  was  distantly  related  to  the  Grand 
r:  and  had  been  enrolled  at  an  early  age  among  his 
pages,  but  hod  been  rapidly  promoted  by.  him,  until,  at  tb 
of  twenty-six,  he  had  been  given  the  richest  Spanish  com 
dery  in  the  order.  He  had.  moreover,  been  fortunate  with  the 
fair,  with  one  of  whom,  the  most  beautiful  honorata  of  Malta, 
he  had  long  maintained  th  ader  correspondex] 

The  character,   rani  of  Don  Luis  put  him 

on  a  par  with  the  imperious  Commander  <!<•  Foulquerre,  and 
pointed  him  out  as  a  leader  and  champion  t<-  in-  countrymen. 


132  WOLFERVS  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 

The  Spanish  chevaliers  repaired  tu  him,  therefore,  in  a  body  r 
represented  all  the  grievances  they  had  sustained,  and  the 
evils  they  apprehended,  and  urged  him  to  use  his  influence 
with  the  commander  and  his  adherents  to  put  a  stop  t<  i 
growing  abuses. 

Don  Luis  was  gratified  by  this  mark  of  confidence  and  esteem 
on  the  part  of  his  countrymen,  and  promised  to  have  an  inter- 
view with  the  Commander  de  Foulquerre  on  the  subject.  He 
resolved  to  conduct  himself  with  the  utmost  caution  and  deli- 
cacy on  the  occasion ;  to  represent  to  the  commander  the  evil 
consequences  which  might  result  from  the  inconsiderate  con- 
duct of  the  young  French  chevaliers,  and  to  entreat  him  to 
exert  the  great  influence  he  so  deservedly  possessed  over  them, 
to  restrain  their  excesses.  Don  Luis  was  aware,  lowever,  o  I 
the  peril  that  attended  any  interview  of  the  kind  with  this  iir 
perious  and  fractious  man,  and  apprehended,  however  it  migh,j 
commence,  that  it  would  terminate  in  a  duel.  Still,  it  was  am 
affair  of  honor,  in  which  Castilian  dignity  was  concerned, 
beside,  he  had  a  lurking  disgust  at  the  overbearing  manners  of 
De  Foulquerre,  and  perhaps  had  been  somewhat  offended  by 
certain  intrusive  attentions  which  he  had  presumed  to  pay  to 
the  beautiful  honorata. 

It  was  now  Holy  Week ;  a  time  too  sacred  for  worldly  feuds 
and  passions,  especially  in  a  community  under  the  dominion  of 
a  religious  order ;  it  was  agreed,  therefore,  that  the  dangerous 
interview  in  question  should  not  take  place  until  after  the 
Easter  holidays.  It  is  probable,  from  subsequent  circumstan- 
ces, that  the  Commander  de  Foulquerre  had  some  information 
of  this  arrangement  among  the  Spanish  chevaliers,  and  was 
determined  to  be  beforehand,  and  to  mortify  the  pride  of  their 
champion,  who  was  thus  preparing  to  read  him  a  lecture.  He 
chose  Good  Friday  for  his  purpose.  On  this  sacred  day,  it  is 
customary  in  Catholic  countries  to  make  a  tour  of  all  the 
churches,  offering  up  prayers  in  each.  In  every  Catholic 
church,  as  is  well  known,  there  is  a  vessel  of  holy  water  near 
the  door.  In  this,  every  one,  on  entering,  dips  his  fingers,  and 
makes  therewith  the  sign  of  the  cross  on  his  forehead  and 
breast.  An  office  of  gallantry,  among  the  young  Spaniards,  is 
to  stand  near  the  door,  dip  their  hands  in  the  holy  vessel,  and 
extend  them  courteously  and  respectfully  to  any  lady  of  their 
acquaintance  who  may  enter ;  who  thus  receives  the  sacred 
water  at  second  hand,  on  the  tips  of  her  fingers,  and  proceeds 
to  cross  herself,  with  all  due  decorum.     The  Spaniards,  who 


THE  KNIGHT  OF  MALTA. 


133 


he  most  jealous  of  lovers,  are  impatient  when  this  piece  of 

tional  gallantry  is  proffered  to  the  object  of  their  affections 

oy  any  other  hand:  on  Good  Friday,  therefore,  when  a  lady 

makes  a  tour  of  the  churches,  it  is  the  usage  among  them  for 

the  inamorato  to  follow  her  from  church  to  church,  so  as  to 

present  her  the  holy  water  at  the  door  of  each ;  thus  testifying 

iwn  devotion,  and  at  the  same  time  preventing  the  officious 

ices  of  a  rival. 

On  the  day  in  question,  Don  Luis  followed  the  beautiful 
nonorata,   to  whom,  as  has  already  been  observed,   he  had 
long  been  devoted.     At  the  very  first  church  she  visited,  the 
Commander  de  Foulquerre  was  stationed  at  the  portal,  with 
several  of  the  young  French  chevaliers  about  him.      Before 
Don  Luis  could  offer  her  the  holy  water,  he  was  anticipated  by 
the  commander,  who  thrust  himself  between  them,  and,  while 
he  performed  the  gallant  office  to  the  lady,  rudely  turned  his 
back  upon  her  admirer,  and  trod  upon  his  feet.     The  insult  was 
enjoyed  by  the  young  Frenchmen  who  were  present :  it  was 
too  deep  and  grave  to  be  forgiven  by  Spanish  pride ;  and  at 
once  put  an  end  to  all  Don  Luis'  plans  of  caution  and  forbear- 
ance    He  repressed  his  passion  for  the  moment,  however,  and 
waited  until  all  the  parties  left  the  church;  then,  accosting  the 
commander  with  an  air  of  coolness  and  unconcern,  he  inquired 
after  his  health,  and  asked  to  what  church  he  proposed  making 
his  second  visit.     ''To  the  Magisterial  Church  of  Saint  John/' 
Don  Luis  offered  to  conduct  him  thither,  by  the  shortest  route. 
His  offer  was  accepted,  apparently  without  suspicion,  and  they 
proceeded  together.     After  walking  some  distance,  they  entered 
a  long,  narrow  lane,  without  door  or  window  opening  upon  it, 
called  the  "Strada  Stretta,''  or  narrow  street.     It  was  a  street 
in  which  duels  were  tacitly  permitted,  or  connived  at.  in  Malta, 
and   were  suffered  to  pass  as  accidental  encounters.     Every 
where  else  they  were  prohibited.     This  restriction  had  been 
instituted  to  diminish  the  number  of  duels,  formerly  so  fre- 
quent in  Malta.     As  a  farther  precaution  to  render  these  en- 
counters less  fatal,  it  was  an  offence,  punishable  with  death, 
for  any  one  to  enter  this  street  armed  with  either  poniard  or 
pistol.     It  was  a  lonely,  dismal  street,  just  wide  enough  for 
two  men  to  stand  upon  their  guard,  and  cross  their  swords; 
few  persons  ever  traversed  it.  unless  with  some  sinister  design  ■ 
and  on  any  preconcerted  duello,  the  seconds  posted  themselves 
at  each  end,  to  stop  all  passengers,  and  prevent  interruption. 

In  the  present  instance,  the  parties  had  scarce  entered  the 


134  WOLFERTS  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES, 

street,  when  Don  Luis  drew  hie  sword,  and  called  upon  one 
commander  to  defend  himself. 

De  Foulquerre  was  evidently  taken  by  surprise:  he  drew 
back,  and  attempted  to  expostulate ;  but  Don  Luis  persisted  in 
defying  him  to  the  combat. 

After  a  second  or  two,  he  likewise  drew  his  sword,  but  im 
mediately  lowered  the  point. 

' '  Good  Friday !"  ejaculated  he,  shaking  his  head :  ' '  one  wore 
with  you ;  it  is  full  six  years  since  I  have  been  in  a  conies 
sional :  I  am  shocked  at  the  state  of  my  conscience ;  but  withir. 
three  days — that  is  to  say,  on  Monday  next " 

Don  Luis  would  listen  to  nothing.  Though  naturally  or  h 
peaceable  disposition,  he  had  been  stung  to  fury,  and  people  oi: 
that  character,  when  once  incensed,  are  deaf  to  reason.  He 
compelled  the  commander  to  put  himself  on  his  guard.  Tht 
latter,  though  a  man  accustomed  to  brawl  in  battle,  was  singu 
larly  dismayed.  Terror  was  visible  in  all  his  features.  He 
placed  himself  with  his  back  to  the  wall,  and  the  weapons  were 
crossed.  The  contest  was  brief  and  fatal.  At  the  very  firs' 
thrust,  the  sword  of  Don  Luis  passed  through  the  body  of  his 
antagonist.  The  commander  staggered  to  the  wall,  and  leaner 
against  it. 

"  On  Good  Friday !"  ejaculated  he  again,  with  a  failing  voice, 
and  despairing  accents.  "Heaven  pardon  you!"  added  he ; 
' '  take  my  sword  to  Tetef  oulques,  and  have  a  hundred  masses 
performed  in  the  chapel  of  the  castle,  for  the  repose  of  my 
soul !"    With  these  words  he  expired. 

The  fury  of  Don  Luis  was  at  an  end.  He  stood  aghast,  gaz- 
ing at  the  bleeding  body  of  the  commander.  He  called  to  mind 
the  prayer  of  the  deceased  for  three  days'  respite,  to  make  his 
peace  with  heaven;  he  had  refused  it;  had  sent  him  to  the 
grave,  with  all  his  sins  upon  his  head !  His  conscience  smote 
him  to  the  core ;  he  gathered  up  the  sword  of  the  commander, 
which  he  had  been  enjoined  to  take  to  Tetef  oulques,  and  hur- 
ried from  the  fatal  Strada  Stretta. 

The  duel  of  course  made  a  great  noise  in  Malta,  but  had  no 
injurious  effect  upon  the  worldly  fortunes  of  Don  Luis.  He 
made  a  full  declaration  of  the  whole  matter,  before  the  proper 
authorities ;  the  Chapter  of  the  Order  considered  it  one  of  those 
casual  encounters  of  the  Strada  Stretta,  which  were  mourned 
over,  but  tolerated ;  the  public,  by  whom  the  late  commander 
had  been  generally  detested,  declared  that  he  had  deserved  his 
fate.    It  was  but  three  days  after  the  event,  that  Don  Luis  was 


THE  KNIGJ&T  OF  MALTA.  L35 

adranced  to  one  of  the  highest  dignities  of  the  Order,  being  in- 
vested by  the  Grand  Master  with  the  priorship  of  the  king 
of  Minorca. 

From  that  time  forward,  however,  the  whole  character  and 
conduct  of  Don  Luis  underwent  a  change.  He  became  a  prey- 
to  a  dark  melancholy,  which  nothing  could  assuage.  The  most 
austere  piety,  the  severest  penances,  had  no  effect  in  allaying 
the  horror  which  preyed  upon  his  mind.  He  was  absent  foi  a 
long  time  from  Malta ;  having  gone,  it  was  said,  on  remote  pil- 
grimages :  when  he  returned,  he  was  more  haggard  than  ever. 
There  seemed  something  mysterious  and  inexplicable  hi  tins 
disorder  of  his  mind.  The  following  is  the  revelation  made  by 
himself,  of  the  horrible  visions,  or  chimeras,  by  which  he  was 
haunted : 

"When  I  had  made  my  declaration  before  the  Chapter,"  said 
he,  "  and  my  provocations  were  publicly  known,  I  had  made 
my  peace  with  man ;  but  it  was  not  so  with  God,  nor  with  my 
confessor,  nor  with  my  own  conscience.  My  act  was  doubly 
criminal,  from  the  day  on  which  it  was  committed,  and  from 
my  refusal  to  a  delay  of  three  days,  for  the  victim  of  my  resent- 
ment to  receive  the  sacraments.  His  despairing  ejaculation, 
'  Good  Friday !  Good  Friday ! '  continually  rang  in  my  ears. 
'  Why  did  I  not  grant  the  respite ! '  cried  I  to  myself ;  '  was  it  not 
enough  to  kill  the  body,  but  must  I  seek  to  kill  the  soul ! ' 

; '  On  the  night  of  the  following  Friday,  I  started  suddenly 
from  my  sleep.  An  unaccountable  horror  was  upon  me.  ] 
looked  wildly  around.  It  seemed  as  if  I  were  not  in  my  apart- 
ment, nor  in  my  bed,  but  in  the  fatal  Strada  Stretta,  lying  on 
the  pavement.  I  again  saw  the  commander  leaning  against 
the  wall;  I  again  heard  his  dying  words:  '  Take  my  sword  to 
Tetefoulques,  and  have  a  hundred  masses  performed  in  the 
chapel  of  the  castle,  for  the  repose  of  my  soul ! ' 

"  On  the  following  night,  I  caused  one  of  my  servants  to  sleep 
in  the  same  room  with  me.  I  saw  and  heard  nothing,  either 
on  that  night,  or  any  of  the  nights  following,  until  the  next 
Friday ;  when  I  had  again  the  same  vision,  with  this  difference, 
that  my  valet  seemed  to  be  lying  at  some  distance  from  me  on 
the  pavement  of  the  Strada  Stretta.  The  vision  continued  to 
be  repeated  on  every  Friday  night,  the  commander  always 
appearing  in  the  same  manner,  and  uttering  the  same  words: 
1  Take  my  sword  to  Tetefoulques.  and  have  a  hundred  masses 
performed  in  the  chapel  of  the  castle  for  the  repose  of  my 
sold ! ' 


136  W0LFERT8  ROOST  A  XI)  MISCELLANIES. 

"  On  questioning  my  servant  on  the  subject,  he  stated,  that 
on  these  occasions  he  dreamed  that  he  was  lying  in  a  very 
narrow  street,  but  he  neither  saw  nor  heard  any  thing  of  the 
commander. 

"I  knew  nothing  of  this  Tetefoulques,  whither  the  defunct 
was  so  urgent  I  should  carry  his  sword.  I  made  inquiries, 
therefore,  concerning  it  among  the  French  chevaliers.  They 
Informed  me  that  it  was  an  old  castle,  situated  about  four 
leagues  from  Poitiers,  in  the  midst  of  a  forest.  It  had  been 
built  in  old  times,  several  centuries  since,  by  Foulques  Taille- 
fer,  (or  Fulke  Hackiron,)  a  redoubtable,  hard-fighting  Count 
of  Angouleme,  who  gave  it  to  an  illegitimate  son,  afterward 
created  Grand  Seneschal  of  Poitou,  which  son  became  the  pro- 
genitor of  the  Foulquerres  of  Tetefoulques,  hereditary  Sene- 
schals of  Poitou.  They  farther  informed  me.  that  strange  sto- 
ries were  told  of  this  old  castle,  in  the  surrounding  country, 
and  that  it  contained  many  curious  reliques.  Among  these, 
were  the  arms  of  Foulques  Taillefer,  together  with  all  those  of 
the  warriors  he  had  slain;  and  that  it  was  an  immemorial 
usage  with  the  Foulquerres  to  have  the  weapons  deposited 
there  which  they  had  wielded  either  in  war  or  in  single  combat. 
This,  then,  was  the  reason  of  the  dying  injunction  of  the  com- 
mander respecting  his  sword.  I  carried  this  weapon  with  me, 
wherever  I  went,  but  still  I  neglected  to  comply  with  his  re- 
quest. 

' '  The  visions  still  continued  to  harass  me  with  undiminished 
horror.  I  repaired  to  Pome,  where  I  confessed  myself  to  the 
Grand  Cardinal  penitentiary,  and  informed  him  of  the  terrors 
with  which  I  was  haunted.  He  promised  me  absolution,  after 
I  should  have  performed  certain  acts  of  penance,  the  principal 
of  which  was,  to  execute  the  dying  request  of  the  commander, 
by  carrying  the  sword  to  Tetefoulques,  and  having  the  hundred 
masses  performed  in  thft  chapel  of  the  castle  for  the  repose  of 
his  soul. 

"I  set  out  for  France  ^s  speedily  as  possible,  and  made  no 
delay  in  my  journey.  Oi?  arriving  at  Poitiers,  I  found  that 
the  tidings  of  the  death  of  the  commander  had  reached  there, 
but  had  caused  no  more  affliction  than  among  the  people  of 
Malta,  Leaving  my  equipage  in  the  town,  I  put  on  the  garb  of 
a  pilgrim,  and  taking  a  guide,  set  out  on  foot  for  Tetefoulques. 
Indeed  the  roads  in  this  part  of  the  country  were  impracticable 
for  carriages. 

"I  found  the  castle  of  Tetefoulques  a  grand  but  gloomy  and 


THE  KNIGHT  OF  MALTA.  137 

dilapidated  pile.  All  the  gates  were  closed,  and  there  reigned 
over  the  whole  place  an  air  of  almost  savage  loneliness  and 
desertion.  I  had  understood  that  its  only  inhabitants  were  the 
concierge,  or  warder,  and  a  kind  of  hermit  who  had  charge  of 
the  chapel.  After  ringing  for  some  time  at  the  gate,  I  at 
length  succeeded  in  bringing  forth  the  warder,  who  bowed 
with  reverence  to  my  pilgrim's  garb.  I  begged  him  to  conduct 
me  to  the  chapel,  that  being  the  end  of  my  pilgrimage.  We 
found  the  hermit  there,  chanting  the  funeral  service ;  a  dismal 
sound  to  one  who  came  to  perform  a  penance  for  the  death  of 
a  member  of  the  family.  When  he  had  ceased  to  chant,  I 
informed  him  that  I  came  to  accomplish  an  obligation  of  con- 
science, and  that  I  wished  him  to  perform  a  hundred  masses 
for  the  repose  of  the  soul  of  the  commander.  He  replied  that, 
not  being  in  orders,  he  was  not  authorized  to  perform  mass, 
but  that  he  would  willingly  undertake  to  see  that  my  debt  of 
conscience  was  discharged.  I  laid  my  offering  on  the  altar, 
and  would  have  placed  the  sword  of  the  commander  there, 
likewise.  'Hold!'  said  the  hermit,  with  a  melancholy  shake 
of  the  head,  '  this  is  no  place  for  so  deadly  a  weapon,  that 
has  so  often  been  bathed  in  Christian  blood.  Take  it  to  the 
armory ;  you  will  find  there  trophies  enough  of  like  character. 
It  is  a  place  into  which  I  never  enter. ' 

'•  The  warder  here  took  up  the  theme  abandoned  by  the  peace- 
ful man  of  God.  He  assured  me  that  I  would  see  in  the  armory 
the  swords  of  all  the  warrior  race  of  Foulquerres,  together 
with  those  of  the  enemies  over  whom  they  had  triumphed. 
This,  he  observed,  had  been  a  usage  kept  up  since  the  time  of 
Mellusine,  and  of  her  husband,  Geoffrey  a  la  Grand-dent,  or 
Geoffrey  with  the  Great-tooth. 

"I  followed  the  gossiping  warder  to  the  armory.  It  was  a 
great  dusty  hall,  hung  round  with  Gothic-looking  portraits,  of 
a  stark  line  of  warriors,  each  with  his  weapon,  and  the  wea- 
pons of  those  he  had  slain  in  battle,  hung  beside  his  picture. 
The  most  conspicuous  portrait  was  that  of  Foulques  Taillefer, 
(Fulke  Hackiron,)  Count  of  Angouleme,  and  founder  of  the 
castle.  He  was  represented  at  full  length,  armed  cap-a-pie, 
and  grasping  a  huge  buckler,  on  which  were  emblazoned  three 
lions  passant.  The  figure  was  so  striking,  that  it  seemed  ready 
to  start  from  the  canvas :  and  I  observed  beneath  this  picture, 
atrophy  composed  of  many  weapons,  proofs  of  the  numerous 
triumphs  of  this  hard-fighting  old  cavalier.  Beside  the  wea- 
pons connected  with  the  portraits,  there  were  swords  of  all 


138  WOLFERT%a  ROOST  AND   MISCELLANIES. 

shapes,  sizes,  and  centuries,  hung  round  the  haU ;  with  piles  oi 
armor,  placed  as  it  were  in  effig 

"  On  each  side  of  an  immense  chimney,  were  suspended  the 
portraits  of  the  first  seneschal  of  Poitou  (the  illegitimate  son  of 
Foulques  Taillefer)  and  his  wife  Isabella  de  Lusignan;  the  pro- 
genitors of  the  grim  race  of  Foulqueires  that  frowned  around. 
They  had  the  look  of  being  perfect  likenesses ;  and  as  I  gazed  on 
them,  I  fancied  I  could  trace  in  their  antiquated  features  some 
family  resemblance  to  their  unfortunate  descendant,  whom  I 
had  slain'.  This  was  a  dismal  neighborhood,  yet  the  armory 
was  the  only  part  of  the  castle  that  had  a  habitable  air,  so  I 
asked  the  warder  whether  he  could  not  make  a  fire,  and  give 
me  something  for  supper  there,  and  prepare  me  a  bed  in  one 
corner. 

"  '  A  fire  and  a  supper  you  si  iall  have,  and  that  cheerfully,  most 
worthy  pilgrim,'  said  he;  but  as  to  a  bed,  I  advise  you 
to  come  and  sleep  in  my  eh  amber.' 

"  %  Why  so? '  inquired  I ;  '  why  shall  I  not  sleep  in  this  hall  ? ' 

"'I  have  my  reasons;  I  will  make  a  bed  for  you  close  to 
mine.' 

"  I  made  no  objections,  for  I  recollected  that  it  was  Friday, 
and  I  dreaded  the  return  of  my  vision.  He  brought  in  billets 
oi  wood,  kindled  a  fire  in  the  great  overhanging  chimney,  and 
then  went  forth  to  prepare  my  supper.  I  drew  a  heavy  chair 
before  the  fire,  and  seating  myself  in  it,  gazed  muzingly  round 
upon  the  portraits  of  the  Foulquerres,  and  the  antiquated 
armor  and  weapons,  the  mementos  of  many  a  bloody  deed.  As 
the  day  declined,  the  sm<>ky  draperies  of  the  hall  gradually 
became  confounded  with  the  dark  ground  of  the  paintings,  and 
the  lurid  gleams  from  the  chimney  only  enabled  me  to  see 
visages  staring  at  me  from  the  gathering  darkness.  All  this 
was  dismal  in  the  extreme,  and  somewhat  appalling;  perhaps 
it  was  the  state  of  my  conscience  that  rendered  me  peculiarly 
sensitive,  and  prone  to  fearful  imaginings. 

11  At  length  the  warder  brought  in  my  supper.  It  consisted 
of  a  dish  of  trout,  and  some  era  wfish  taken  in  the  fosse  of  the 
castle.  He  procured  also  a  bottle  of  wine,  which  he  informed 
me  was  wine  of  Poitou.  I  requested  him  to  invite  the  hermit 
to  join  me  in  my  repast ;  but  the  holy  man  sent  back  word  that 
he  allowed  himself  nothing  but  roots  and  herbs,  cooked  with 
water.  I  took  my  meal,  therefore,  alone,  but  prolonged  it  as 
much  as  possible,  and  sought  to  cheer  my  drooping  spiril 
tfte  wine  of  Poitou,  which  I  found  very  tolerable. 


THE  KNIGHT  OF  MALTA.  139 

"When  supper  was  over,  i  prepared  for  my  evening  devo« 
tions.  I  have  always  been  very  punctual  in  reciting  my  brevi- 
ary ;  it  is  the  prescribed  and  bounden  duty  of  all  chevaliers  of 
the  religious  orders;  and  I  can  answer  for  it,  is  faithfully- 
performed  by  those  of  Spain.  I  accordingly  drew  forth  from 
my  pocket  a  small  missal  and  a  rosary,  and  told  the  warder 
lie  need  only  designate  to  me  the  way  to  his  chamber,  where  I 
could  come  and  rejoin  him,  when  I  had  finished  my  pray 

k'He  accordingly  pointed  out  a  winding  stair-case,  opening 
from  the  hall.  'You  will  descend  this  stair-case,'  said  he, 
1  until  you  come  to  the  fourth  landing-place,  where  you  enter  a 
vaulted  passage,  terminated  by  an  arcade,  with  a  statue  of  the 
blessed  Jeanne  of  France ;  you  cannot  help  finding  my  room, 
the  door  of  winch  I  will  leave  open ;  it  is  the  sixth  door  from 
the  landing-place.  I  advise  you  not  to  remain  in  this  hall  after 
midnight.  Before  that  hour,  you  will  hear  the  hermit  ring  the 
bell,  in  going  the  rounds  of  the  corridors.  Do  not  linger  here 
after  that  signal. ' 

1 '  The  warder  retired,  and  I  commenced  my  devotions.  I 
continued  at  them  earnestly ;  pausing  from  time  to  time  to  put 
wood  upon  the  fire.  I  did  not  dare  to  look  much  around  me, 
for  I  felt  myself  becoming  a  prey  to  fearful  fancies.  The  pic- 
tures appeared  to  "become  animated.  If  I  regarded  one  atten- 
tively, for  any  length  of  time,  it  seemed  to  move  the  eyes  and 
lips.  Above  all,  the  portraits  of  the  Grand  Seneschal  and  his 
lady,  which  hung  on  each  side  of  the  great  chimney,  the  pro- 
genitors of  the  Foulquerres  of  Tetefoulque,  regarded  me,  I 
thought,  with  angry  and  baleful  eyes:  I  even  fancied  they 
exchanged  significant  glances  with  each  other.  Just  then  a 
terrible  blast  of  ~ wind  shook  all  the  casements,  and.  rushing 
through  the  hall,  made  a  fearful  rattling  and  clashing  among 
the  armor.     To  my  startled  fancy,  it  seemed  son  iper- 

natural. 

"At  length  I  heard  the  bell  of  the  hermit,  and  hastened  to 
}uit  the  hall.  Taking  a  solitary  light,  which  stood  on  the  sup- 
per-table. I  descended  the  winding  stair-case;  but  before  I  had 
reached  the  vaulted  passage  leading  to  the  statue  of  the  blessed 
Jeanne  of  France,  a  blast  of  wind  extinguished  my  taper.  I 
hastily  remounted  the  stairs,  to  light  it  again  at  the  chimney ; 
but  judge  of  my  feelings,  when,  on  arriving  at  the  entran 

rmory,  I  beheld  the  Seneschal  and  his  lad  v.  who  had 
descended  from  their  frames,  and  seated  tl;  s  on  each 

side  of  the  fire-plac 


140  W0LFERT8  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 

"  '  Madam,  my  love,'  said  che  Seneschal,  with  great  formality, 
and  in  antiquated  phrase,  'what  think  you  of  the  presump- 
tion of  this  Castilian,  who  comes  to  harbor  himself  and  make 
wassail  in  this  our  castle,  after  having  slain  our  descendant, 
the  commander,  and  that  without  granting  him  time  for  con- 
fession?' 

«  '  Truly,  my  lord,'  answered  the  female  spectre,  with  no  less 
stateliness  of  manner,  and  with  great  asperity  of  tone ;  '  truly, 
my  lord,  I  opine  that  this  Castilian  did  a  grievous  wrong  in  this 
encounter;  and  he  should  never  be  suffered  to  depart  hencQ, 
without  your  throwing  him  the  gauntlet. '  I  paused  to  hear  no 
more,  but  rushed  again  down-stairs,  to  seek  the  chamber  of  the 
warder.  It  was  impossible  to  find  it  in  the  darkness,  and  in  the 
perturbation  of  my  mind.  After  an  hour  and  a  half  of  fruitless 
search,  and  mortal  horror  and  anxieties,  I  endeavored  to  per- 
suade myself  that  the  day  was  about  to  break,  and  listened 
impatiently  for  the  crowing  of  the  cock ;  for  I  thought  if  I  could 
hear  his  cheerful  note,  I  should  be  reassured;  catching,  in  tlm 
disordered  state  of  my  nerves,  at  the  popular  notion  that 
ghosts  never  appear  after  the  first  crowing  of  the  cock. 

' '  At  length  I  rallied  myself,  and  endeavored  to  shake  off  the 
vague  terrors  which  haunted  me.  I  tried  to  persuade  myself 
that  the  two  figures  which  I  had  seemed  to  see  and  hear,  had 
existed  only  in  my  troubled  imagination.  I  still  had  the  end 
of  the  candle  in  my  hand,  and  determined  to  make  another 
effort  to  re-light  it,  and  find  my  way  to  bed ;  for  I  was  ready  to 
sink  with  fatigue.  I  accordingly  sprang  up  the  stair-case, 
three  steps  at  a  time,  stopped  at  the  door  of  the  armory,  and 
peeped  cautiously  in.  The  two  Gothic  figures  were  no  longer 
in  the  chimney  corners,  but  I  neglected  to  notice  whether  they 
had  reascended  to  their  frames.  I  entered,  and  made  desper- 
ately for  the  fire-place,  but  scarce  had  I  advanced  three  strides, 
when  Messire  Foulques  Taillefer  stood  before  me,  in  the  centre 
of  the  hall,  armed  cap-a-pie,  and  standing  in  guard,  with  the 
point  of  his  sword  silently  presented  to  me.  I  would  have 
retreated  to  the  stair-case,  but  the  door  of  it  was  occupied  by 
the  phantom  figure  of  an  esquire,  who  rudely  flung  a  gauntlet 
in  my  face.  Driven  to  fury,  I  snatched  down  a  sword  from  the 
wall :  by  chance,  it  was  that  of  the  commander  which  I  had 
placed  there.  I  rushed  upon  my  fantastic  adversary,  and 
seemed  to  pierce  him  through  and  through ;  but  at  the  same 
time  I  felt  as  if  something  pierced  my  heart,  burning  like  a 
red-hot  iron.     My  blood  inundated  the  hall,  and  I  fell  senseless. 


THE  KNIGHT  OF  MALTA.  141 

"When  I  recovered  consciousness,  it  was  broad  day,  and  I 
found  myself  in  a  small  chamber,  attended  by  the  warder  and 
the  hermit.  The  former  told  me  that  on  the  previous  night,  he 
had  awakened  long  after  the  midnight  hour,  and  perceiving 
that  I  had  not  come  to  his  chamber,  he  had  furnished  himself 
with  a  vase  of  holy  water,  and  set  out  to  seek  me.  He  found 
me  stretched  senseless  on  the  pavement  of  the  armory,  and 
bore  me  to  this  room.  I  spoke  of  my  wound,  and  of  the  quan- 
tity of  blood  that  I  had  lost.  He  shook  his  head,  and  knew 
nothing  about  it ;  and  to  my  surprise,  on  examination,  I  found 
myself  perfectly  sound  and  unharmed.  The  wound  and  blood, 
therefore,  had  been  all  delusion.  Neither  the  warder  nor  the 
hermit  put  any  questions  to  me,  but  advised  me  to  leave  the 
castle  as  soon  as  possible.  I  lost  no  time  in  complying  with 
their  counsel,  and  felt  my  heart  relieved  from  an  oppressive 
weight,  as  I  left  the  gloomy  and  fate-bound  battlements  of 
Tetefoulques  behind  me. 

"  I  arrived  at  Bayonne,  on  my  way  to  Spain,  on  the  follow- 
ing Friday.  At  midnight  I  was  startled  from  my  sleep,  as  I 
had  formerly  been ;  but  it  was  no  longer  by  the  vision  of  the 
dying  commander.  It  was  old  Foulques  Taillefer  who  stood 
before  me,  armed  cap-a-pie,  and  presenting  the  point  of  his 
sword.  I  made  the  sign  of  the  cross,  and  the  spectre  vanished, 
but  I  received  the  same  red-hot  thrust  in  the  heart  which  I  had 
felt  in  the  armory,  and  I  seemed  to  be  bathed  in  blood.  I  would 
have  called  out,  or  have  arisen  from  my  bed  and  gone  in  quest 
of  succor,  but  I  could  neither  speak  nor  stir.  This  agony  en- 
dured until  the  crowing  of  the  cock,  when  I  fell  asleep  again ; 
but  the  next  day  I  was  ill,  and  in  a  most  pitiable  state.  I 
have  continued  to  be  harassed  by  the  same  vision  every  Fri- 
day night ;  no  acts  of  penitence  and  devotion  have  been  able  to 
relieve  me  from  it ;  and  it  is  only  a  lingering  hope  in  divine 
mercy,  that  sustains  me,  and  enables  me  to  support  so  lamen- 
table a  visitation." 


The  Grand  Prior  of  Minorca  wasted  gradually  away  under 
this  constant  remorse  of  conscience,  and  this  horrible  incubus. 
He  died  some  time  after  having  revealed  the  preceding  particu- 
lars of  his  case,  evidently  the  victim  of  a  diseased  imagination. 

The  above  relation  has  been  rendered,  in  many  parts  literally, 
from  the  French  memoir,  in  which  it  is  given  as  a  true  story: 
if  so,  it  is  one  of  those  instances  in  which  truth  is  more 
romantic  than  fiction  ( J .  C. 


142  WOLFERTS  BOOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 

LEGEND  OF  THE  ENGULPHED  CONVENT. 

BY  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT. 

At  the  dark  and  melancholy  period  when  Don  Eoderick  the 
Goth  and  his  chivalry  were  overthrown  on  the  banks  of  the 
Guadalete,  and  all  Spain  was  overrun  by  the  Moors,  great  was 
the  devastation  of  churches  and  convents  throughout  that 
pious  kingdom.  The  miraculous  fate  of  one  of  those  holy  piles 
is  thus  recorded  in  one  of  the  authentic  legends  of  those  days. 

On  the  summit  of  a  hill,  not  very  distant  from  the  capital 
city  of  Toledo,  stood  an  ancient  convent  and  chapel,  dedicated 
to  the  invocation  of  Saint  Benedict,  and  inhabited  by  a  sister- 
hood of  Benedictine  nuns.  This  holy  asylum  was  confined  to 
females  of  noble  lineage.  The  younger  sisters  of  the  highest. 
families  were  here  given  in  religious  marriage  to  their  Saviour, 
in  order  that  the  portions  of  their  elder  sisters  might  be  in- 
creased, and  they  enabled  to  make  suitable  matches  on  earth, 
or  that  the  family  wealth  might  go  undivided  to  elder  brothers, 
and  the  dignity  of  their  ancient  houses  be  protected  from 
decay  The  convent  was  renowned,  therefore,  for  enshrining 
within  its  walls  a  sisterhood  of  the  purest  blood,  the  most  im- 
maculate virtue,  and  most  resplendent  beauty,  of  all  Gothic 
Spain. 

When  the  Moors  overran  the  kingdom,  there  was  nothing 
that  more  excited  their  hostility  than  these  virgin  asylums. 
The  very  sight  of  a  convent-spire  was  sufficient  to  set  their 
Moslem  blood  in  a  foment,  and  they  sacked  it  with  as  fierce  a 
zeal  as  though  the  sacking  of  a  nunnery  were  a  sure  passport 
to  Elysium. 

Tidings  of  such  outrages  committed  in  various  parts  of  the 
kingdom  reached  this  noble  sanctuary  and  filled  it  with  dis- 
may. The  danger  came  nearer  and  nearer;  the  infidel  hosts 
were  spreading  all  over  the  country;  Toledo  itself  was  cap- 
tured ;  there  was  no  flying  from  the  convent,  and  no  security 
within  its  walls. 

In  the  midst  of  this  agitation,  the  alarm  was  given  one  day 
that  a  great  band  of  Saracens  were  spurring  across  the  plain. 
In  an  instant  the  whole  convent  was  a  scene  of  confusion. 
Some  of  the  nuns  wrung  their  fair  hands  at  the  windows; 
others  waved  their  veils  and  uttered  shrieks  from  the  tops  of 
the  towers,  vainly  hoping  to  draw  relief  from  a  country  over- 


LEGEND   OF  THE  ENGULPBED  CONVENT.         143 

un  by  the  foe.  The  sight  of  these  innocent  doves  thus  flutter- 
ing about  their  dove-cote,  but  increased  the  zealot  fury  of  the 
whiskered  Moors.  They  thundered  at  the  portal,  and  at  every 
blow  the  ponderous  gates  trembled  on  their  hinges. 

The  nuns  now  crowded  round  the  abbess.  They  had  been 
aa  ustomed  to  look  up  to  her  as  all-powerful,  and  they  now  im- 
1  her  protection.  The  mother  abbess  looked  with  a  rueful 
eye  upon  the  treasures  of  beauty  and  vestal  virtue  exposed  to 
such  imminent  peril.  Alas  I  how  was  she  to  protect  them  from 
the  spoiler !  She  had,  it  is  true,  experienced  many  signal  inter- 
positions of  providence  in  her  individual  favor.  Her  early 
days  had  been  passed  amid  the  temptations  of  a  court,  where 
her  virtue  had  been  purified  by  repeated  trials,  from  none  of 
wliich  had  she  escaped  but  by  a  miracle.  But  were  miracles 
never  to  cea.se  \  Could  she  hope  that  the  marvellous  protection 
shown  to  herself  would  be  extended  to  a  whole  sisterhood? 
There  was  no  other  resource.  The  Moors  were  at  the  thresh- 
old ;  a  few  moments  more  and  the  convent  would  be  at  their 
mercy.  Summoning  her  nuns  to  follow  her,  she  hurried  into 
the  chapel ;  and  throwing  herself  on  her  knees  before  the  image 
of  the  blessed  Mary,  "Oh,  holy  Lady!"  exclaimed  she,  uoh, 
most  pure  and  immaculate  of  virgins !  thou  seest  our  extremity. 
The  ravager  is  at  the  gate,  and  there  is  none  on  earth  to  help 
us !  Look  down  with  pity,  and  grant  that  the  earth  may  gape 
and  swallow  us  rather  than  that  our  cloister  vows  should  suf- 
fer violation!" 

The  Moors  redoubled  their  assault  upon  the  portal ;  the  gates 
gave  way,  with  a  tremendous  crash ;  a  savage  yell  of  exulta- 
tion arose ;  when  of  a  sudden  the  earth  yawned ;  down  sank  the 
convent,  with  its  cloisters,  its  dormitories,  and  all  its  nuns. 
The  chapel  tower  was  the  last  that  sank,  the  bell  ringing 
forth  a  peal  of  triumph  in  the  very  teeth  of  the  infidels. 


Forty  years  had  passed  and  gone,  since  the  period  of  this 
miracle.  The  subjugation  of  Spain  was  complete.  The  Moors 
lorded  it  over  city  and  country;  <md  such  of  the  Christian 
population  as  remained,  and  were  permitted  to  exercise  their 
religion,  did  it  in  humble  resignation  to  the  Moslem  sway. 

At  this  time,  a  Christian  cavalier,  of  Cordova,  hearing  that 
a  patriotic  band  of  his  countrymen  had  raised  the  standard  of 
the  cross  in  the  mountains  of  the  ..  resolved  to  join 

them,  and  unite  in  breaking  the  yoke  of  bondage.     Secretly 


144  WOLFERTS  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 

arming  himself,  and  caparisoning  his  steed,  he  set  forth  iron 
Cordova,  and  pursued  his  course  by  unfrequented  mule-paths 
and  along  the  dry  channels  made  by  winter  torrents.  Hit 
spirit  burned  with  indignation,  whenever,  on  commanding  a 
view  over  a  long  sweeping  plain,  he  beheld  the  mosque  swell 
ing  in  the  distance,  and  the  Arab  horsemen  careering  about, 
as  if  the  rightful  lords  of  the  soil.  Many  a  deep-drawn  sigh^ 
and  heavy  groan,  also,  did  the  good  cavalier  utter,  on  pass 
ing  the  ruins  of  churches  and  convents  desolated  by  the  con 
querors. 

It  was  on  a  sultry  midsummer  evening,  that  this  wander- 
ing cavalier,  in  skirting  a  hill  thickly  covered  with  forest,  heard 
the  faint  tones  of  a  vesper  bell  sounding  melodiously  in  the 
air.  and  seeming  to  come  from  the  summit  of  the  hill.  The 
cavalier  crossed  himself  with  wonder,  at  this  unwonted  and 
Christian  sound.  He  supposed  it  to  proceed  from  one  of  those 
humble  chapels  and  hermitages  permitted  to  exist  through 
the  indulgence  of  the  Moslem  conquerors.  Turning  his  steed 
up  a  narrow  path  of  the  forest,  he  sought  this  sanctuary,  in 
hopes  of  finding  a  hospitable  shelter  for  the  night.  As  he 
advanced,  the  trees  threw  a  deep  gloom  around  him,  and 
the  bat  flitted  across  his  path.  The  bell  ceased  to  toll,  and 
all  was  silence. 

Presently  a  choir  of  female  voices  came  stealing  sweetly 
through  the  forest,  chanting  the  evening  service,  to  the  solemn 
accompaniment  of  an  organ.  The  heart  of  the  good  cavalier 
melted  at  the  sound,  for  it  recalled  the  happier  days  of  his 
country.  Urging  forward  his  weary  steed,  he  at  length  ar- 
rived at  a  broad  grassy  area,  on  the  summit  of  the  hill,  sur- 
rounded by  the  forest.  Here  the  melodious  voices  rose  in  full 
chorus,  like  the  swelling  of  the  breeze ;  but  whence  they  came, 
he  could  not  tell.  Sometimes  they  were  before,  sometimes 
behind  him ;  sometimes  in  the  air,  sometimes  as  if  from  within 
the  bosom  of  the  earth.  At  length  they  died  away,  and  a  holy 
stillness  settled  on  the  place. 

The  cavalier  gazed  around  with  bewildered  eye.  There 
was  neither  chapel  nor  convent,  nor  humble  hermitage,  to 
be  seen;  nothing  but  a  moss-grown  stone  pinnacle,  rising  out 
of  the  centre  of  the  area,  surmounted  by  a  cross.  The  green- 
sward around  appeared  to  have  been  sacred  from  the  tread 
of  man  or  beast,  and  the  surrounding  trees  bent  toward  the 
cross,  as  if  in  adoration. 

The  cavalier  felt  a  sensation  of  holy  awe.    He  alighted  and 


•  LEGEND   OF  THE  ENOULPUED    C02\  VENT.  145 

tethered  his  steed  on  the  skirts  of  the  forest,  where  he  might 
crop  the  tender  herbage;  then  approaching  the  cross,  he  knelt 
and  poured  forth  his  evening  prayers  before  this  relique  of 
the  Clmstian  days  of  Spain.  His  orisons  being  concluded, 
he  laid  himself  down  at  the  foot  of  the  pinnacle,  and  reclin- 
ing his  head  against  one  of  its  stones,  fell  into  a  deep  sleep. 

About  midnight,  he  was  awakened  by  the  tolling  of  a  bell, 
and  found  lihnself  lying  before  the  gate  of  an  ancient  con- 
vent. A  train  of  nuns  passed  by,  each  bearing  a  taper.  The 
cavalier  rose  and  followed  them  into  the  chapel;  in  the  cen- 
tre of  which  was  a  bier,  on  which  lay  the  corpse  of  an  aged 
nun.  The  organ  performed  a  solenm  requiem :  the  nuns  join- 
ing in  chorus.  When  the  funeral  service  was  finished,  a 
melodious  voice  chanted,  "  Requiescat  in  pace!"—  "May  she 
rest  in  peace !"  The  lights  immediately  vanished ;  the  whole 
passed  away  as  a  dream;  and  the  cavalier  found  himself  at 
the  foot  of  the  cross,  and  beheld,  by  the  faint  rays  of  the 
rising  moon,  his  steed  quietly  grazing  near  him. 

When  the  day  dawned,  the  cavalier  descended  the  hill,  and 
following  the  course  of  a  small  brook,  came  to  a  cave,  at  the 
entrance  of  which  was  seated  an  ancient  man,  clad  in  hermit's 
garb,  with  rosary  and  cross,  and  a  beard  that  descended  to  his 
girdle.  He  was  one  of  those  holy  anchorites  permitted  by  the 
Moors  to  live  unmolested  in  dens  and  caves,  and  humble  her- 
mitages, and  even  to  practise  the  rites  of  their  religion.  The 
cavalier  checked  his  horse,  and  dismounting,  knelt  and  craved 
a  benediction.  He  then  related  all  that  had  befallen  him  in 
the  night,  and  besought  the  hermit  to  explain  the  mystery. 

'What  thou  hast  heard  and  seen,  my  son."  replied  the 
other,  "is  but  type  and  shadow  of  the  woes  of  Spain." 

He  then  related  the  foregoing  story  of  the  miraculous  de- 
liverance of  the  convent. 

"Forty  years,"  added  the  holy  man,  "have  elapsed  since 
this  event,  yet  the  bells  of  that  sacred  edifice  are  still  heard, 
from  time  to  time,  sounding  from  under  ground,  together 
with  the  pealing  of  the  organ,  and  the  chanting  of  the  choir. 
The  Moors  avoid  this  neighborhood,  as  haunted  ground,  and 
the  whole  place,  as  thou  mayest  perceive,  has  become  covered 
with  a  thick  and  lonely  forest. " 

The  cavalier  listened  with  wonder  to  the  story  of  this  en- 
gulphed  convent,  as  related  by  the  holy  man.  For  three  days 
and  nights  did  they  keep  vigils  beside  the  cross:  but  nothing 
more  was  to  be  seen  of  nun  or  convent.     It  is  supposed  that, 


146  WOLFEBTS  ROOST  A  XT)  MISCELLANIES. 

forty  years  having  elapsed,  the  natural  Jives  of  all  tlic  nuns 
were  finished,  and  that  the  cavalier  had  beheld  the  obsequies 
of  the  last  of  the  sisterhood.  Certain  it  is,  that  from  that 
time,  bell,  and  organ,  and  ehoral  chant  have  never  more  been 
heard. 

The  mouldering  pinnacle,  surmounted  by  the  cross,  still 
remains  an  object  of  pious  pilgrimage.  Some  say  that  it 
anciently  stood  in  front  of  the  convent,  but  others  assert  that 
it  was  the  spire  of  the  sacred  edifice,  and  that,  when  the 
main  body  of  the  building  sank,  this  remained  above  ground, 
like  the  top-mast  of  sum-  tall  ship  that  has  foundered. 
These  pious  believers  maintain,  that  the  convent  is  miracu- 
lously preserved  entire  in  the  centre  of  the  mountain,  where, 
if  proper  excavations  were  made,  it  would  be  found,  with  all 
its  treasures,  and  monuments,  and  shrines,  and  reliques,  and 
the  tombs  of  its  virgin  nuns. 

Should  any  on;'  doubt  the  truth  of  this  marvellous  inter- 
position of  the  Virgin,  to  protect  the  vestal  purity  of  her 
votaries,  let  him  read  the  excellent  work  entitled  ' '  Espafia 
Triumphante,"  written  by  Padre  Fray  Antonio  de  Sancta 
Maria,  a  bare  foot  friar  of  the  Carmelite  order,  and  he  will 
doubt  no  longer. 


THE  COUNT  VAN  HORN. 

During  the  minority  of  Louis  XV.,  while  the  Duke  of 
Orleans  was  Regent  of  France,  a  young  Flemish  nobleman, 
the  Count  Antoine  Joseph  Van  Horn,  made  his  sudden  ap- 
pearance in  Paris,  and  by  his  character,  conduct,  and  the  sub- 
sequent disasters  in  winch  he  became  involved,  created  a  great 
sensation  in  the  high  circles  of  the  proud  aristocracy.  He 
was  about  twenty-two  years  of  age,  tall,  finely  formed,  with  a 
pale,  romantic  countenance,  and  eyes  of  remarkable  brilliancy 
and  wildness. 

He  was  of  one  of  the  most  ancient  and  highly -esteemed 
families  of  European  nobility,  being  of  the  line  of  the  Princes 
of  Horn  and  Overiquc,  sovereign  Counts  of  Hautekerke,  and 
hereditary  Grand  Veneurs  of  the  empire. 

The  family  took  its  name  from  the  little  town  and  seigneurie 
of  Horn,  in  Brabant ;  and  was  known  as  early  as  the  eleventh 
century  among  the  little  dynasties  of  the  Netherlands,  and 


TIIE  COUNT  VAN  HORN.  147 

since  that  time  by  a  long  line  of  illustrious  generations.  At 
the  peace  of  Utrecht,  when  the  Netherlands  passed  under  sub- 
jection to  Austria,  the  house  of  Van  Horn  came  under  the 
domination  of  the  emperor.  At  the  time  we  treat  of,  two  of 
the  branches  of  this  ancient  house  were  extinct ;  the  third  and 
only  surviving  branch  was  represented  by  the  reigning  prince, 
Maximilian  Emanuel  Van  Horn,  twenty -four  years  of  age,  who 
resided  in  honorable  and  courtly  style  on  his  hereditary  do- 
mains at  Baussigny,  in  the  Netherlands,  and  his  brother,  the 
Count  Antoine  Joseph,  who  is  the  subject  of  this  memoir. 

The  ancient  house  of  Van  Horn,  by  the  intermarriage  of  its 
various  branches  with  the  noble  families  of  the  continent,  had 
become  widely  connected  and  interwoven  with  the  high  aris- 
tocracy of  Europe.  The  Count  Antoine,  therefore,  could  claim 
relationship  to  many  of  the  proudest  names  in  Paris.  In  fact, 
he  was  grandson,  by  the  mother's  side,  of  the  Prince  de  Ligne, 
and  even  might  boast  of  affinity  to  the  Regent  (the  Duke  of 
Orleans)  himself.  There  were  circumstances,  however,  con- 
nected with  his  sudden  appearance  in  Paris,  and  his  previous 
Story,  that  placed  him  in  what  is  termed  "a  false  position;"  a 
word  of  baleful  significance  in  the  fashionable  vocabulary  of 
France. 

The  young  count  had  been  a  captain  in  the  service  of  Aus- 
tria, but  had  been  cashiered  for  irregular  conduct,  and  for 
disrespect  to  Prince  Louis  of  Baden,  commander-in-chief.  To 
check  him  in  his  wild  career,  and  bring  him  to  sober  reflection, 
his  brother  the  prince  caused  him  to  be  arrested  and  sent  to 
the  old  castle  of  Van  Wert,  in  the  domains  of  Horn.  This  was 
the  same  castle  in  which,  in  former  times,  John  Van  Horn, 
Stadtholder  of  Gueldres,  had  imprisoned  his  father ;  a  circum- 
stance which  has  furnished  Rembrandt  with  the  subject  of  an 
admirable  painting.  The  governor  of  the  castle  was  one  Van 
Wert,  grandson  of  the  famous  John  Van  Wert,  the  hero  of 
many  a  popular  song  and  legend.  It  was  the  intention  of  the 
prince  that  his  brother  should  be  held  in  honorable  durance, 
for  his  object  was  to  sober  and  improve,  not  to  punish  and 
afflict  him.  Van  Wert,  however,  was  a  stern,  harsh  man  of 
violent  passions.  He  treated  the  youth  in  a  manner  that  pri- 
soners and  offenders  were  treated  in  the  strong-holds  of  the 
robber  counts  of  Germany  in  old  times;  confined  him  in  a 
dungeon  and  inflicted  on  him  such  hardships  anl  indignities 
that  the  irritable  temperament  of  the  young  count  was  roused 
to  continual  furv.  which  ended  in  insanity.     For  six  months 


148  WOLFERTS  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES 

was  the  unfortunate  youth  kept  in  this  horrible  state,  without 
his  brother  the  prince  being  informed  of  his  melancholy  condi- 
tion or  of  the  cruel  treatment  to  which  he  was  subjected.  At 
length,  one  day,  in  a  paroxysm  of  frenzy,  the  count  knocked 
down  two  of  his  gaolers  with  a  beetle,  escaped  from  the  castle 
of  Van  Wert,  and  eluded  all  pursuit ;  and  after  roving  about 
in  a  state  of  distraction,  made  his  way  to  Baussigny  and 
appeared  like  a  sceptre  before  his  brother. 

The  prince  was  shocked  at  his  wretched,  emaciated  appear- 
ance and  his  lamentable  state  of  mental  alienation.  He  re- 
ceived him  with  the  most  compassionate  tenderness;  lodged 
him  in  his  own  room,  appointed  three  servants  to  attend  and 
watch  over  him  day  and  night,  and  endeavored  by  the  most 
soothing  and  affectionate  assiduity  to  atone  for  the  past  act  of 
rigor  with  which  he  reproached  himself.  When  he  learned, 
however,  the  manner  in  which  his  unfortunate  brother  had 
been  treated  in  confinement,  and  the  course  of  brutalities  that 
had  led  to  his  mental  malady,  he  was  roused  to  indignation. 
His  first  step  was  to  cashier  Van  Wert  from  his  command. 
That  violent  man  set  the  prince  at  defiance,  and  attempted  to 
maintain  himself  in  his  government  and  his  castle  by  instigat- 
ing the  peasants,  for  several  leagues  round,  to  revolt.  His 
insurrection  might  have  been  formidable  against  the  power  of 
a  petty  prince ;  but  he  was  put  under  the  ban  of  the  empire 
and  seized  as  a  state  prisoner.  The  memory  of  his  grandfather, 
the  oft-sung  John  Van  Wert,  alone  saved  him  from  a  gibbet ; 
but  he  was  imprisoned  in  the  strong  tower  of  Horn-op-Zee. 
There  he  remained  until  he  was  eighty-two  years  of  age,  sav- 
age, violent,  and  unconquered  to  the  last ;  for  we  are  told  that 
he  never  ceased  fighting  and  thumping  as  long  as  he  could 
close  a  fist  or  wield  a  cudgel. 

In  the  mean  time  a  course  of  kind  and  gentle  treatment  and 
wholesome  regimen,  and,  above  all,  the  tender  and  affectionate 
assiduity  of  his  brother,  the  prince,  produced  the  most  salutary 
effects  upon  Count  Antoine.  He  gradually  recovered  his 
reason ;  but  a  degree  of  violence  seemed  always  lurking  at  the 
bottom  of  his  character,  and  he  required  to  be  treated  with  the 
greatest  caution  and  mildness,  for  the  least  contradiction  exas- 
perated him. 

In  this  state  of  mental  convalescence,  he  began  to  find  the 
supervision  and  restraints  of  brotherly  affection  insupportable; 
30  he  left  the  Netherlands  furtively,  and  repaired  to  Paris, 
whither,  in  fact,  it  is  said  he  was  called  by  motives  of  interest, 


TUE  COUNT   VAN  HORN.  149 

to  make  arrangements  concerning  a  valuable  estate  which  he 
inherited  from  his  relative,  the  Princess  d'Epinay. 

On  his  arrival  in  Paris,  he  called  upon  the  Marquis  of  Crequi, 
and  other  of  the  high  nobility  with  whom  he  was  connected. 
He  was  received  with  great  courtesy ;  but,  as  he  brought  no 
letters  from  his  elder  brother,  the  prince,  and  as  various  cir- 
cumstances of  his  previous  history  had  transpired,  they  did 
not  receive  him  into  their  families,  nor  introduce  him  to  their 
ladies.  Still  they  feted  him  in  bachelor  style,  gave  him  gay 
and  elegant  suppers  at  their  separate  apartments,  and  took 
him  to  their  boxes  at  the  theatres.  He  was  often  noticed,  too, 
at  the  doors  of  the  most  fashionable  churches,  taking  his  stand 
among  the  young  men  of  fashion ;  and  at  such  times,  his  tall, 
elegant  figure,  his  pale  but  handsome  countenance,  and  his 
flashing  eyes,  distinguished  him  from  among  the  crowd ;  and 
the  ladies  declared  that  it  was  almost  impossible  to  support  his 
ardent  gaze. 

The  Count  did  not  afflict  himself  much  at  his  limited  circu- 
lation in  the  fastidious  circles  of  the  high  aristocracy.  He 
relished  society  of  a  wilder  and  less  ceremonious  cast;  and 
meeting  with  loose  companions  to  his  taste,  soon  ran  into.all 
the  excesses  of  the  capital,  in  that  most  licentious  period.  It 
is  said  that,  in  the  course  of  his  wild  career,  he  had  an  intrigue 
with  a  lady  of  quality,  a  favorite  of  the  Eegent ;  that  he  was 
surprised  by  that  prince  in  one  of  his  interviews ;  that  sharp 
words  passed  between  them;  and  that  the  jealousy  and  ven- 
geance thus  awakened,  ended  only  with  his  life. 

About  this  time,  the  famous  Mississippi  scheme  of  Law  was 
at  its  height,  or  rather  it  began  to  threaten  that  disastrous 
catastrophe  which  convulsed  the  whole  financial  world.  Every 
effort  was  making  to  keep  the  bubble  inflated.  The  vagranti 
population  of  France  was  swept  off  from  the  streets  at  night, 
and  conveyed  to  Havre  de  Grace,  to  be  shipped  to  the  pro- 
jected colonies ;  even  laboring  people  and  mechanics  were  thus 
crimped  and  spirited  away.  As  Count  Antoine  was  in  the 
habit  of  sallying  forth  at  night,  in  disguise,  in  pursuit  of  his 
pleasures,  he  came  near  being  carried  off  by  a  gang  of  crimps ; 
it  seemed,  in  fact,  as  if  they  had  been  lying  in  wait  for  him,  as 
he  had  experienced  very  rough  treatment  at  their  hands. 
Complaint  was  made  of  Ins  case  by  his  relation,  the  Marquis 
de  Crequi,  who  took  much  interest  in  the  youth ;  but  the  Mar- 
quis received  mysterious  intimations  not  to  interfere  in  the 
matter,  but  to  advise  the  Count  to  quit  Paris  immediately: 


150  WOLFEBTS  BOOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 

"  If  he  lingers,  he  is  lost !"  This  has  been  cited  as  a  proof  that 
vengeance  was  clogging  at  the  heels  of  the  unfortunate  youth, 
and  only  watching  for  an  opportunity  to  destroy  him. 

Such  opportunity  occurred  but  too  soon.  Among  the  loose 
companions  with  whom  the  Count  had  become  intimate,  were 
two  who  lodged  in  the  same  hotel  with  him.  One  was  a  youth 
only  twenty  years  of  age,  who  passed  himself  off  as  the  Cheva- 
lier d'Etampes,  but  whose  real  name  was  Lestang,  the  prodi- 
gal son  of  a  Flemish  banker.  The  other,  named  Laurent  de 
Mille,  a  Piedmontese,  was  a  cashiered  captain,  and  at  the  time 
an  esquire  in  the  service  of  the  dissolute  Princess  de  Carignan, 
who  kept  gambling-tables  in  her  palace.  It  is  probable  that 
gambling  propensities  had  driven  these  young  men  together, 
and  that  their  losses  had  brought  them  to  desperate  measures : 
certain  it  is,  that  all  Paris  was  suddenly  astounded  by  a  mur- 
der which  they  were  said  to  have  committed.  What  made  the 
crime  more  startling,  was,  that  it  seemed  connected  with  the 
great  Mississippi  scheme,  at  that  time  the  fruitful  source  of  all 
kinds  of  panics  and  agitations.  A  Jew,  a  stock-broker,  who 
dealt  largely  in  shares  of  the  bank  of  Law,  founded  on  the 
Mississippi  scheme,  was  the  victim.  The  story  of  his  death  is 
variously  related.  The  darkest  account  states,  that  the  Jew 
was  decoyed  by  these  young  men  into  an  obscure  tavern, 
under  pretext  of  negotiating  with  him  for  bank  shares  to  the 
amount  of  one  hundred  thousand  crowns,  which  he  had  with 
him  in  his  pocket-book.  Lestang  kept  watch  upon  the  stairs. 
The  Count  and  De  Mille  entered  with  the  Jew  into  a  chamber. 
In  a  little  while  there  were  heard  cries  and  struggles  from 
within.  A  waiter  passing  by  the  room,  looked  in,  and  seeing 
the  Jew  weltering  in  his  blood,  shut  the  door  again,  double- 
locked  it,  and  alarmed  the  house.  Lestang  rushed  down- 
stairs, made  his  way  to  the  hotel,  secured  his  most  portable 
effects,  and  fled  the  country.  The  Count  and  De  Mille  en- 
deavored to  escape  by  the  window,  but  were  both  taken,  and 
conducted  to  prison. 

A  circumstance  which  occurs  in  this  part  of  the  Count's 
story,  seems  to  point  him  out  as  a  fated  man.  His  mother, 
and  his  brother,  the  Prince  Van  Horn,  had  received  intelli- 
gence some  time  before  at  Baussigny,  of  the  dissolute  life  the 
Count  was  leading  at  Paris,  and  of  his  losses  at  play.  They 
despatched  a  gentleman  of  the  prince's  household  to  Paris,  to 
pay  the  debts  of  the  Count,  and  persuade  him  to  return  to 
Flanders ;  or,  if  he  should  refuse,  to  obtain  an  order  from  the 


THE  COUNT   VAN  HORN.  151 

Regent  for  him  to  quit  the  capital.    Unfortunately  the  gentle- 
man did  not  arrive  at  Paris  until  the  day  after  the  murder. 

The  news  of  the  Count's  arrest  and  imprisonment  on  a 
charge  of  murder,  caused  a  violent  sensation  among  the  high 
aristocracy.  All  those  connected  with  him,  who  had  treated 
him  hitherto  with  indifference,  found  their  dignity  deeply  in- 
volved in  the  question  of  his  guilt  or  innocence.  A  general 
convocation  was  held  at  the  hotel  of  the  Marquis  de  Crequi,  of 
all  the  relatives  and  allies  of  the  house  of  Horn.  It  was  an  as- 
semblage of  the  most  proud  and  aristocratic  personages  of 
Paris.  Inquiries  were  made  into  the  circumstances  of  the 
affair.  It  was  ascertained,  beyond  a  doubt,  that  the  Jew  was 
dead,  and  that  he  had  been  killed  by  several  stabs  of  a  pon- 
iard. In  escaping  by  the  window,  it  was  said  that  the  Count 
had  fallen,  and  been  immediately  taken ;  but  that  De  Mille  had 
fled  through  the  streets,  pursued  by  the  populace,  and  had  been 
arrested  at  some  distance  from  the  scene  of  the  murder ;  that 
the  Count  had  declared  himself  innocent  of  the  death  of  the 
Jew,  and  that  he  had  risked  his  own  life  in  endeavoring  to 
protect  him ;  but  that  De  Mille,  on  being  brought  back  to  the 
tavern,  confessed  to  a  plot  to  murder  the  broker,  and  rob  him 
of  his  pocket-book,  and  inculpated  the  Count  in  the  crime. 

Another  version  of  the  story  was,  that  the  Count  Van  Horn 
had  deposited  with  the  broker,  bank  shares  to  the  amount  of 
eighty-eight  thousand  livres ;  that  he  had  sought  him  in  this 
tavern,  which  was  one  of  his  resorts,  and  had  demanded  the 
shares;  that  the  Jew  had  denied  the  deposit;  that  a  quarrel 
had  ensued,  in  the  course  of  which  the  Jew  struck  the  Count 
in  the  face;  that  the  latter,  transported  with  rage,  had 
snatched  up  a  knife  from  a  table,  and  wounded  the  Jew  in 
the  shoulder ;  and  that  thereupon  De  Mille,  who  was  present, 
and  who  had  likewise  been  defrauded  by  the  broker,  fell  on 
him,  and  despatched  him  with  blows  of  a  poniard,  and  seized 
upon  his  pocket-book ;  that  he  had  offered  to  divide  the  con- 
tents of  the  latter  with  the  Count,  pro  rata,  of  what  the  usurer 
had  defrauded  them ;  that  the  latter  had  refused  the  proposi 
tion  with  disdain,  and  that,  at  a  noise  of  persons  approach- 
ing, both  had  attempted  to  escape  from  the  premises,  but  had 
been  taken. 

Regard  the  story  in  any  way  they  might,  appearances  were 
terribly  against  the  Count,  and  the  noble  assemblage  was  in 
great  consternation.  What  was  to  be  done  to  ward  off  so  foul 
a  disgrace  and  to  save  their  illustrious  escutcheons  from  this 


152  WOLFEMT'S  BOOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 

murderous  stain  of  blood?  Their  first  attempt  was  to  prevent 
the  affair  from  going  to  trial,  and  their  relative  from  being 
dragged  before  a  criminal  tribunal,  on  so  horrible  and  de- 
grading a  charge.  They  applied,  therefore,  to  the  Eegent,  to 
intervene  his  power ;  to  treat  the  Count  as  having  acted  under 
an  access  of  his  mental  malady ;  and  to  shut  him  up  in  a  mad- 
house. The  Eegent  was  deaf  to  their  solicitations.  He  re- 
plied, coldly,  that  if  the  Count  was  a  madman,  one  could  not 
get  rid  too  quickly  of  madmen  who  were  furious  in  their  in- 
sanity. The  crime  was  too  public  and  atrocious  to  be  hushed 
up  or  slurred  over ;  justice  must  take  its  course. 

Seeing  there  was  no  avoiding  the  humiliating  scene  of  a 
public  trial,  the  noble  relatives  of  the  Count  endeavored  to  pre- 
dispose the  minds  of  the  magistrates  before  whom  he  was  to 
be  arraigned.  They  accordingly  made  urgent  and  eloquent 
representations  of  the  high  descent,  and  noble  and  powerful 
connexions  of  the  Count;  set  forth  the  circumstances  of  his 
early  history ;  his  mental  malady ;  the  nervous  irritability  to 
which  he  was  subject,  and  his  extreme  sensitiveness  to  insult 
or  contradiction.  By  these  means  they  sought  to  prepare  the 
judges  to  interpret  every  thing  in  favor  of  the  Count,  and, 
even  if  it  should  prove  that  he  had  inflicted  the  mortal  blow 
on  the  usurer,  to  attribute  it  to  access  of  insanity,  provoked 
by  insult. 

To  give  full  effect  to  these  representations,  the  noble  con- 
clave determined  to  bring  upon  the  judges  the  dazzling  rays 
of  the  whole  assembled  aristocracy.  Accordingly,  on  the  day 
that  the  trial  took  place,  the  relations  of  the  Count,  to  the 
number  of  fifty-seven  persons,  of  both  sexes,  and  of  the  high- 
est rank,  repaired  in  a  body  to  the  Palace  of  Justice,  and  took 
their  stations  in  a  long  corridor  which  led  to  the  court-room. 
Here,  as  the  judges  entered,  they  had  to  pass  in  review  this 
array  of  lofty  and  noble  personages,  who  saluted  them  mourn- 
fully and  significantly,  as  they  passed.  Any  one  conversant 
with  the  stately  pride  and  jealous  dignity  of  the  French 
noblesse  of  that  day,  may  imagine  the  extreme  state  of  sensi- 
tiveness that  produced  this  self-abasement.  It  was  confidently 
presumed,  however,  by  the  noble  suppliants,  that  having  once 
brought  themselves  to  this  measure,  their  influence  over  the 
tribunal  would  be  irresistible.  There  was  one  lady  present, 
however,  Madame  de  Beauffremont,  who  was  affected  with 
the  Scottish  gift  of  second  sight,  and  related  such  dismal  and 
sinister  apparitions  as  passing  before  her  eyes,  that  many  of 


THE  COUNT  VAN  HORN.  153 

her  female  companions  were  filled  with  doleful  presenti- 
ments. 

Unfortunately  for  the  Count,  there  was  another  interest  at 
work,  more  powerful  even  than  the  high  aristocracy.  The  all- 
potent  Abbe  Dubois,  the  grand  favorite  and  bosom  counsellor 
of  the  Regent,  was  deeply  interested  in  the  scheme  of  Law, 
and  the  prosperity  of  his  bank,  and  of  course  in  the  security  of 
the  stock-brokers.  Indeed,  the  Regent  himself  is  said  to  have 
dipped  deep  in  the  Mississippi  scheme.  Dubois  and  Law, 
therefore,  exerted  their  influence  to  the  utmost  to  have  the 
tragic  affair  pushed  to  the  extremity  of  the  law,  and  the  mur- 
der of  the  broker  punished  in  the  most  signal  and  appalling 
manner.  Certain  it  is,  the  trial  was  neither  long  nor  intricate. 
The  Count  and  his  fellow  prisoner  were  equally  inculpated  in 
the  crime ;  and  both  were  condemned  to  a  death  the  most  hor- 
rible and  ignominious— to  be  broken  alive  on  the  wheel ! 

As  soon  as  the  sentence  of  the  court  was  made  public,  all  the 
nobility,  in  any  degree  related  to  the  house  of  Van  Horn,  went 
into  mourning.  Another  grand  aristocratical  assemblage  was 
held,  and  a  petition  to  the  Regent,  on  behalf  of  the  Count,  was 
drawn  out  and  left  with  the  Marquis  de  Crequi  for  signature. 
This  petition  set  forth  the  previous  insanity  of  the  Count,  and 
showed  that  it  was  a  hereditary  malady  of  his  family.  It 
stated  various  circumstances  in  mitigation  of  his  offence,  and 
implored  that  Ins  sentence  might  be  commuted  to  perpetual 
imprisonment. 

Upward  of  fifty  names  of  the  highest  nobility,  beginning 
with  the  Prince  de  Ligne,  and  including  cardinals,  arch- 
bishops, dukes,  marquises,  etc.,  together  with  ladies  of  equal 
rank,  were  signed  to  this  petition.  By  one  of  the  caprices  of 
human  pride  and  vanity,  it  became  an  object  of  ambition  to 
get  enrolled  among  the  illustrious  suppliants ;  a  kind  of  testi- 
monial of  noble  blood,  to  prove  relationship  to  a  murderer! 
The  Marquis  de  Crequi  was  absolutely  besieged  by  applicants 
to  sign,  and  had  to  refer  their  claims  to  this  singular  honor,  to 
the  Prince  de  Ligne,  the  grandfather  of  the  Count.  Many  who 
were  excluded,  were  highly  incensed,  and  numerous  feuds  took 
place.  Nay,  the  affronts  thus  given  to  the  morbid  pride  of 
some  aristocratical  families,  passed  from  generation  to  genera- 
tion; for,  fifty  years  afterward,  the  Duchess  of  Mazarin  com- 
plained of  a  slight  which  her  father  liad  received  from  the  Map- 
quis  de  Crequi.  which  proved  to  be  something  connected  with 
the  signature  of  this  petition, 


154  WOLFEllTS  ROOST  AND  MliSVELLAJS'JM 

This  important  document  being  completed,  the  illustrious 
body  of  petitioners,  male  and  female,  on  Saturday  evening, 
the  eve  of  Palm  Sunday,  repaired  to  the  Palais  Royal,  the  resi- 
dence of  the  Regent,  and  were  ushered,  with  great  ceremony 
but  profound  silence,  into  his  hall  of  council.  They  had  ap- 
pointed four  of  their  number  as  deputies,  to  present  the  peti 
tion,  viz. :  the  Cardinal  de  Rohan,  the  Duke  de  Havre,  the 
Prince  de  Ligne,  and  the  Marquis  de  Crequi.  After  a  little 
while,  the  deputies  were  summoned  to  the  cabinet  of  the  Re- 
gent. They  entered,  leaving  the  assembled  petitioners  in  a  state 
of  the  greatest  anxiety.  As  time  slowly  wore  away,  and  the 
evening  advanced,  the  gloom  of  the  company  increased.  Sev- 
eral of  the  ladies  prayed  devoutly;  the  good  Princess. of  Ar- 
magnac  told  her  beads. 

The  petition  was  received  by  the  Regent  with  a  most  unpropi- 
tious  aspect.  ' '  In  asking  the  pardon  of  the  criminal, "  said  he, 
"you  display  more  zeal  for  the  house  of  Van  Horn,  than  for 
the  service  of  the  king."  The  noble  deputies  enforced  the  peti- 
tion by  every  argument  in  their  power.  They  supplicated  the 
Regent  to  consider  that  the  infamous  punishment  in  question 
would  reach  not  merely  the  person  of  the  condemned,  not 
merely  the  house  of  Van  Horn,  but  also  the  genealogies  of 
princely  and  illustrious  families,  in  whose  armorial  bearings 
might  be  found  quarterings  of  this  dishonored  name. 

11  Gentlemen,"  replied  the  Regent,  "  it  appears  to  me  the  dis- 
grace consists  in  the  crime,  rather  than  in  the  punishment. " 

The  Prince  de  Ligne  spoke  with  warmth:  "I  have  in  my 
genealogical  standard,"  said  he,  "four  escutcheons  of  Van 
Horn,  and  of  course  have  four  ancestors  of  that  house.  I  must 
have  them  erased  and  effaced,  and  there  would  be  so  many 
blank  spaces,  like  holes,  in  my  heraldic  ensigns.  There  is  noiJ 
a  sovereign  family  which  would  not  surfer,  through  the  rigor 
of  your  Royal  Highness ;  nay,  all  the  world  knows,  that  in  the 
thirty-two  quarterings  of  Madame,  your  mother,  there  is  an 
escutcheon  of  Van  Horn." 

"  Very  well,"  replied  the  Regent,  "  I  will  share  the  disgrace 
with  you,  gentlemen." 

Seeing  that  a  pardon  could  not  be  obtained,  the  Cardinal 
de  Rohan  and  the  Marquis  de  Crequi  left  the  cabinet ;  but  the 
Prince  de  Ligne  and  the  Duke  de  Havre  remained  behind. 
The  honor  of  their  houses,  more  than  the  life  of  the  unhappy 
Count,  was  the  great  object  of  their  solicitude.  They  now  en- 
deavored to  obtain  a  minor  grace.    They  represented  that  in 


TEE  COUNT  VAN  HORN  .      155 

the  Netherlands,  and  in  Germany,  there  was  an  important  dif- 
ference in  the  public  mind  as  to  the  mode  of  inflicting  the  pun- 
ishment of  death  upon  persons  of  quality.  That  decapitation 
had  no  influence  on  the  fortunes  of  the  family  of  the  executed, 
but  that  the  punishment  of  the  wheel  was  such  an  infamy, 
that  the  uncles,  aunts,  brothers,  and  sisters  of  the  criminal, 
and  Ins  whole  family,  for  three  succeeding  generations,  were 
excluded  from  all  noble  chapters,  princely  abbeys,  sovereign 
bishoprics,  and  even  Teutonic  commanderies  of  the  Order  of 
Malta.  They  showed  how  this  would  operate  immediately 
upon  the  fortunes  of  a  sister  of  the  Count,  who  was  on  the 
point  of  being  received  as  a  canoness  into  one  of  the  noble 
chapters. 

While  this  scene  was  going  on  in  the  cabinet  of  the  Regent, 
the  illustrious  assemblage  of  petitioners  remained  in  the  hall  of 
council,  in  the  most  gloomy  state  of  suspense.  The  re-entrance 
from  the  cabinet  of  the  Cardinal  de  Rohan  and  the  Marquis  de 
Crequi,  with  pale,  downcast  countenances,  had  struck  a  chill 
into  every  heart.  Still  they  lingered  until  near  midnight,  to 
learn  the  result  of  the  after  application.  At  length  the  cabi- 
net conference  was  at  an  end.  The  Regent  came  forth,  and  sa- 
luted the  high  personages  of  the  assemblage  in  a  courtly  man- 
ner. One  old  lady  of  quality,  Madame  de  Ouyon,  whom  he 
had  known  in  his  infancy,  he  kissed  on  the  cheek,  calling  her 
his  "  good  aunt."  He  made  a  most  ceremonious  salutation  to 
the  stately  Marchioness  de  Crequi,  telling  her  he  was  charmed 
to  see  her  at  the  Palais  Royal;  "  a  compliment  very  ill-timed," 
said  the  Marchioness,  "considering  the  circumstance  which 
brought  me  there. "  He  then  conducted  the  ladies  to  the  door 
of  the  second  saloon,  and  there  dismissed  them,  with  the  most 
ceremonious  politeness. 

The  application  of  the  Prince  de  Ligne  and  the  Duke  de 
Havre,  for  a  change  of  the  mode  of  punishment,  had,  after 
much  difficulty,  been  successful.  The  Regent  had  promised 
solemnly  to  send  a  letter  of  commutation  to  the  attorney-gen- 
eral on  Holy  Monday,  the  25th  of  March,  at  five  o'clock  in  the 
morning.  According  to  the  same  promise,  a  scaffold  would  be 
arranged  in  the  cloister  of  the  Conciergerie,  or  prison,  where 
the  Count  would  be  beheaded  on  the  same  morning,  imme- 
diately after  having  received  absolution.  This  mitigation  of 
the  form  of  punishment  gave  but  little  consolation  to  the  great 
body  of  petitioners,  who  had  been  anxious  for  the  pardon  of  the 
youth :  it  was  looked  upon  as  all-important,  however,  by  the 


156  WOLFERTS  BOOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 

Prince  de  Ligne,  who,  as  has  been  before  observed,  was  ex- 
quisitely  alive  to  the  dignity  of  his  family. 

The  Bishop  of  Bayeux  and  the  Marquis  de  Crequi  visited  the 
unfortunate  youth  in  prison.  He  had  just  received  the  com- 
munion in  the  chapel  of  the  Conciergerie,  and  was  kneeling 
before  the  altar,  hstening  to  a  mass  for  the  dead,  which  was 
performed  at  his  request.  He  protested  his  innocence  of  any 
intention  to  murder  the  Jew,  but  did  not  deign  to  allude  to  the 
accusation  of  robbery.  He  made  the  bishop  and  the  Marquis 
promise  to  see  his  brother  the  prince,  and  inform  him  of  this 
his  dying  asseveration. 

Two  other  of  his  relations,  the  Prince  Rebecq-Montmorency 
and  the  Marshal  Van  Isenghien,  visited  him  secretly,  and  of- 
fered him  poison,  as  a  means  of  evading  the  disgrace  of  a  public 
execution.  On  his  refusing  to  take  it,  they  left  him  with  high 
indignation.  "  Miserable  man !"  said  they,  u  you  are  fit  only  to 
perish  by  the  hand  of  the  executioner !" 

The  Marquis  de  Crequi  sought  the  executioner  of  Paris,  to 
bespeak  an  easy  and  decent  death  for  the  unfortunate  youth. 
"  Do  not  make  him  suffer,"  said  he;  "  uncover  no  part  of  him 
but  the  neck ;  and  have  his  body  placed  in  a  coffin,  before  you 
deliver  it  to  his  family."  The  executioner  promised  all  that  was 
requested,  but  declined  a  rouleau  of  a  hundred  louis-d'ors  which 
the  Marquis  would  have  put  into  his  hand.  ' '  I  am  paid  by  the 
king  for  fulfilling  my  office,"  said  he;  and  added  that  he  had 
already  refused  a  like  sum,  offered  by  another  relation  of  the 
Marquis. 

The  Marquis  de  Crequi  returned  home  in  a  state  of  deep  afflic- 
tion. There  he  found  a  letter  from  the  Duke  de  St.  Simon,  the 
familiar  friend  of  the  Regent,  repeating  the  promise  of  that 
prince,  that  the  punishment  of  the  wheel  should  be  commuted 
to  decapitation. 

''Imagine,"  says  the  Marchioness  de  Crequi,  who  in  her 
memoirs  gives  a  detailed  account  of  this  affair,  "  imagine  what 
we  experienced,  and  what  was  our  astonishment,  our  grief,  and 
indignation,  when,  on  Tuesday,  the  26th  of  March,  an  hour 
after  midday,  word  was  brought  us  that  the  Count  Van  Horn 
had  been  exposed  on  the  wheel,  in  the  Place  de  G-reve,  since 
half-past  six  in  the  morning,  on  the  same  scaffold  with  the 
Piedmontese  de  Mille,  and  that  he  had  been  tortured  previous 
to  execution !" 

One  more  scene  of  aristocratic  pride  closed  this  tragic  story. 
The  Marquis  de  Crequi,  on  receiving  this  astounding  news,  im- 


THE  COUNT  VAN  HORN  157 

mediately  arrayed  himself  in  the  uniform  of  a  general  officer, 
with  his  cordon  of  nobility  on  the  coat.  He  ordered  six  valets 
to  attend  him  in  grand  livery,  and  two  of  his  carriages,  each 
with  six  horses,  to  be  brought  forth.  In  this  sumptuous  state, 
he  set  off  for  the  Place  de  Greve,  where  he  had  been  preceded 
by  the  Princes  de  Ligne,  de  Rohan,  de  Croiiy,  and  the  Duke 
de  Havre. 

The  Count  Van  Horn  was  already  dead,  and  it  was  believed 
that  the  executioner  had  had  the  charity  to  give  him  the  coup 
de  grace,  or  "  death-blow,"'  at  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning.  At 
five  o'clock  in  the  evening,  when  the  Judge  Commissary  left 
his  post  at  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  these  noblemen,  with  their  own 
hands,  aided  to  detach  the  mutilated  remains  of  their  relation ; 
the  Marquis  de  Crequi  placed  them  in  one  of  his  carriages,  and 
bore  them  off  to  his  hotel,  to  receive  the  last  sad  obsequies. 

The  conduct  of  the  Regent  in  this  affair  excited  general 
indignation.  His  needless  severity  was  attributed  by  some  to 
vindictive  jealousy ;  by  others  to  the  persevering  machinations 
of  Law.  The  house  of  Van  Horn,  and  the  high  nobility  of 
Flanders  and  Germany,  considered  themselves  flagrantly  out- 
raged :  many  schemes  of  vengeance  were  talked  of,  and  a  hatred 
engendered  against  the  Regent,  that  tollowed  him  through  life, 
and  w.^s  wreaked  with  bitterness  upon  his  memory  after  his 
death. 

The  following  letter  is  said  to  have  been  written  to  the  Regent 
by  the  Prince  Van  Horn,  to  whom  the  former  had  adjudged 
the  confiscated  effects  of  the  Count : 

"I  do  not  complain,  Sir,  of  the  death  of  my  brother,  but  I 
complain  that  your  Royal  Highness  has  violated  in  his  person 
the  rights  of  the  kingdom,  the  nobility,  and  the  nation.  I  thank 
you  for  the  confiscation  of  his  effects ;  but  I  should  think  my- 
self as  much  disgraced  as  he,  should  I  accept  any  favor  at  your 
hands.  I  hope  that  God  and  the  King  may  render  to  you  as 
strict  justice  as  you  have  rendered  to  my  unfortunate  brother." 


1SS 


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